


Prince of Horses, Lord of Stone

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2008-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 122,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.<br/>This tale records the changes this entails - when Theodred eventually  fights at the Pelennor and Boromir at the sieges of Lothlorien and Dol Guldur.</p><p>Warnings for: WIP, battle violence, angst, character death, sex/slash, adult themes.</p><p>Notes: The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture;  they deserve to be part of fanon.</p><p>Everlasting devotion to my patient beta - just_ann_now</p><p> </p><p>Edit: And I'll apologise for the fact I'm having real issues with editing the line-breaks correctly.  The software seems to have a mind of its own!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The moon shone fleetingly between scudding clouds, now and again illuminating the men of the éored, curled in sleep around the banked-down fire. The sentry’s breath filmed in the air as he stamped his feet, rubbing his hands to warm them. His metal gear tinkled faintly as he slowly walked the perimeter of the encampment. The horses stirred a little on their hobbles, but nothing moved among them save the whisper of the cold wind. The sentry walked on.  
  
Théodred stirred in his sleep. Uneasy dreams plagued him, and had done for the last few nights; dreams that on waking he couldn’t remember clearly, but which hovered tantalizingly close to recall. There was something of battle and black war-crows… he could remember their hoarse cries, but that was all he could recollect. He always woke with the feeling he should have seen more, that he had missed something among the trees that surrounded him in his dreams. Rolling over to make himself more comfortable, half-waking from fitful sleep, he looked up into the face of a ghost. A tall figure in grey, pale-skinned, whose braided silver hair hung forward about his shoulders, bent over him - and smiled. Théodred threw off his bedding, reaching for the dagger under the saddle that was his pillow. He was on one knee and rising, blade at the ready, when the stranger showed his empty hands and stepped back.  
  
The cry on Théodred’s lips woke the camp. His men scrambled to seize swords and daggers, a few rising to lunge at the silent strangers standing amongst them. The figure raised his hand and the dozen grey-clad figures threw back their cloaks; those that were attacked, swiftly disarmed the Rohirric warriors with surprising ease. Théodred snatched up his sword and had it at the man’s throat. But… it was not a man… it was… an elf? Théodred shook his head in disbelief. No, it was no vision: their camp was host to a dozen of the fey creatures, each equally tall, nearly a head above the Rohirrim, pale and beautiful, graceful in their obvious strength. They stood at ease with drawn weapons and notched bows, but only to avoid attack rather than to inflict damage to the men waking around them.  
  
“Mae govannen”  
  
Théodred didn’t understand the words but the polite greeting was unmistakable as the Elf bowed his head, hand on breast. Théodred nodded curtly; he chopped his hand across his body, palm down, a signal for his men not to attack. They stared from him to their unearthly visitors and back; wary, but content to follow the Marshal’s lead. A sentry dived into the circle, lance held high: the nearest elf caught his arm, twisted the lance away as if from a child’s grasp and bowled the man over so he sprawled on the floor at their feet. The man stared up, open-mouthed and weaponless.  
  
“I… I saw nothing,” he stammered to no one in particular.  
  
Théodred waved him away; his second-in-command hauled the shame-faced sentry to his feet. This was something the man wouldn’t live down in a hurry.  
  
“We bring you a message and a warning,” the Elf said in Westron, turning his attention back to Théodred. Théodred held his sword steady, keeping it pointed at the base of his visitor’s throat.  
  
“Would we have woken you if we meant you harm?” the Elf said with a faint smile.  
  
Théodred lowered his weapon a fraction. The Elf stood in silent composure, waiting, refusing to speak further. With some reluctance Théodred dropped the point of his sword. The Elf inclined his head and spoke a few brief words; his companions put away their weapons. He smiled encouragingly at Théodred.  
  
“I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlórien, the land you call Dwimordene.”  
  
The Rohirrim muttered, but the Elf ignored their disquiet.  
  
“I am sent by the Lady of Lothlórien. She has seen events and dangers that concern all of you, but you in particular, Prince Théodred, she has a message for. One who has urgent need of you travels in the east, on a quest that stands on a knife-edge. Should it fail, a darkness will roll over the world that none will be able to turn back. In five days time you must be at Nen Hithiol, or events shall occur that will have grievous consequences for the world of Men. Do you know the lake above the great falls?”  
  
Théodred nodded. “I know it, but we travel west, not east. We are charged with defending the Fords.”  
  
“You, Prince of Horses, must use your arms in defence elsewhere. Your men know what they must do at the river – do you think they will fail you?”  
  
“Of course not; I have no doubts as to my men’s loyalty…”  
  
“Good!” Haldir interrupted him. “Then you can travel east with all speed at first light.”  
  
Théodred stood open-mouthed for a moment. He snapped his head up and squared off to the Marchwarden, staring him in the eye.  
  
“No. I cannot.” he stated firmly.  
  
The Marchwarden took a step closer and lowered his voice. “The lord of Gondor has need of you. Without you, he may well fall into shadow,” he said softly.  
  
Théodred started, “Boromir? But…”  
  
The elf held up a hand to silence him. “My Lady looked into his heart, she saw what may be his fate; she knows he is a noble man… a man of destiny… but men are weak and can be tempted.”  
  
Théodred frowned, “It is not your place to accuse him, or to divert me from my duty to my King!”  
“It is of your duty to your King that I am here to speak of…”


	2. Parth Galen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Théodred rode hard.  
  
It was the fourth day since he’d woken to legends standing beside him, an occurrence that he still found hard to believe. ‘That elves still walked in Arda…’ he shook his head and tried to concentrate on the plain before him. He was near; another day and he’d reach the East Wall of Rohan, but should he be here? The niggling doubts still persisted in his thoughts.  
  
The setting sun at his back cast a long shadow of horse and rider ahead of him across the winter-dry grass. He needed to camp, sleep as well as he could, and ride with the dawning tomorrow. He found a fold in the ground that gave some shelter, and a dew-pond with enough water left from the winter-melt to water his horse. A fire would be too visible to unfriendly eyes, so he ate a sparse meal of dried meat and hard bread and rolled himself in his cloak. He’d made as good a bed as he could of the horse blanket and his saddle, but the disquiet in his mind added to the discomfort of rough sleeping, something he could normally ignore. He stared at the stars, seeking reassurance - he shouldn’t be here. He should be at the Ford. The orcs would attack again, he knew it, but the Marchwarden had been insistent. The King’s life was endangered, the elf had said, and his arm alone was what was needed in the east, not with the éored at the Ford.  
  
At first he had flatly refused.  
  
“I cannot leave my men.”  
  
“Have you no confidence in your second-in-command?”  
  
“Yes, of course…”  
  
“Then you may leave them,” the Elf stated bluntly.  
  
“I am their Marshal; I cannot just desert my post.”  
  
“This is not desertion of duty. Your duty is to your King, your father – and to the lord of Gondor. He has sore need of you.”  
  
The haughty elf added this last softly so that only Théodred heard. It was that that finally made him listen, even if reluctantly. He had not taken kindly to the attitude of this Elf, or his brothers. They had the air of knowing more than they said, like adults keeping small children in ignorance to protect them when honest answers would serve better to alert them to dangers.  
  
Eventually this Haldir became impatient; he’d taken Théodred by the arm to pull him to one side, stepping back from him quickly when they were outside the circle of listening men.  
The elf spoke softly, “My Lady knows of your love for the lord of Gondor.” He raised a hand to stop protestations, “Do not ask how. She also knows that he will fall to grave temptation and that the Ranger who accompanies him will do his best to help, but he will be sorely pressed himself…”  
  
“What kind of temptation…?”  
  
“You will find out from him – if you get there in time. If you delay – he will die.”  
Haldir stared him straight in the eye as he said that. He’d held Théodred’s gaze until he could see that Théodred finally believed him – Boromir would die unless he rode east to join him.  
  
They had argued through much of the night; eventually Théodred had consulted with his second-in-command and his senior captains. The Elf spoke to them, telling them that Prince Théodred was needed for a task that would do great service to Rohan and Arda; he would be back among them in less than a moon’s transit. The Elf persevered and his urgency won them over in the end.  
  
Théodred slept fitfully, still unable to shake off his nagging doubts. Dawn found him riding again, but not for long. The ground fell away in steep slopes and ragged cliffs, down to where he glimpsed the long stretch of silvery water, still far off through the trees. Reluctantly he realized that he would have to let his horse go. The land was too treacherous to ride; on the other hand – if this was a fool’s errand, it was a long way to walk back to Edoras. He took off the bridle, a sign that the horse was released deliberately, and carved runes into the saddle so it could be read where he had sent her off . Then he made a pack of spare clothes, travelling gear and bed-roll, whispered the horse for home and set off to find his way down the steep gorge. It was near midday before he saw the lake clearly through the woods; it looked chillingly familiar though he had never been this close to it before.  
  
Hearing harsh shouts and war-whoops some distance away, he increased his pace, dropping all but his weapons. Then, a sound chilled him to the bone: a great horn blast split the air, reverberating through the trees. His heart pumped, his mind shouted denial, ‘No, not too late, Not too late!’  
  
Orcs were everywhere. He hacked down the first two from behind and a third fled before his rage. He screamed a challenge, his blood on fire now as his sword slammed into a fourth. Below him, he could see… this was the place glade from his dreams! A tall man fought furiously against a hoard of screaming orcs - it was Boromir! The Elf spoke truly! At the Gondorian’s feet were at least half a dozen fallen carcasses; tall they were, with a white hand blazoned on their dark hides. More surrounded him as he desperately fought them back, sounding his horn once again in desperate hope of aid. Across the glen, a huge beast loosed an arrow from an evil black bow. Théodred watched in horror as the black shaft bit deep into Boromir’s shoulder. He staggered, but swung his great sword up to cleave yet another orc’s head from its body, spraying black blood over the green earth.  
  
Running hard, Théodred unslung the white bow and quiver Haldir had insisted he take with him. He halted, notching and loosing the white-fletched arrows in quick succession into the mob, not aiming, but sure they would find their mark. The uruks faltered, surprised at finding themselves under attack from behind. Some turned and ran uphill towards him; he shot as swiftly as he could as more black arrows thudded into the ground at his feet. He yelled again, loosing arrows on the charging brutes; two fell almost together, howling as they were pierced through neck and belly. Boromir’s head came up at the sound of the Rohir’s war-cry. Heartened, he renewed his attack, hewing at the great orc that tried to charge him down.  
  
Théodred exhausted his arrows; he flung aside the bow and charged downhill. The Uruk-hai stumbled over their fallen companions as they struggled upwards. Suddenly, at a distance, a bellow went up from a raw throat calling them away. Through the woods he heard shrill shouts, voices that were neither men nor orcs, rapidly receding along with the crash of heavy feet through the undergrowth. Théodred could barely tell, but thought he saw children being carried off by the great uruks. He ran down the slope. An arrow glanced off his mail; he whirled in the archer’s direction, but the orc was already trotting after the pack that ran north. He was some yards from Boromir, but could see the light of recognition and thanks in the other man’s eyes. Another black arrow hit Boromir hard in the chest; spinning him backwards; he fell to his knees. Théodred felt his own heart clench in grief. With a roar he leapt forward at the remaining orcs, swinging his blade to hack and maul whatever was within its reach. He howled his outrage and his anguish, not feeling the jagged blades that caught at his armour.  
  
Boromir staggered to his feet again, the black-fletched arrows extending like spikes from his shoulder and chest. A great black orc stood before him and raised his bow, aiming at Boromir again. Théodred swerved to come behind it, silently this time; he charged the orc aside with his shield; feeling it crunch satisfyingly against the uruk's ribs. Théodred swept his sword round and down in an arc that took the orc through the shoulder down to the spine. It fell sideways and the arrow split the mud at Boromir’s feet. An orc horn sounded some distance away; the remaining beasts broke off and ran to its summons. Boromir sank to his knees, his breathing harsh and painful ragged as Théodred ran to his side to catch him as he collapsed.  
  
Through the wood ran another man, bloodied from battle, grim-faced, eyes fierce. He came to a dead halt at the sight of a golden-haired rohir holding Boromir in his arms.  
  
“They have taken the little ones…” Boromir gasped.  
  
Aragorn nodded.  
  
“We must… Frodo!” Boromir struggled to rise, but Théodred gripped him fast as Aragorn knelt at his side. “Hold him still!” the ranger commanded.  
  
Théodred eyed the ragged, dark-haired man, but obeyed. He could see the stranger was familiar with fighting and wounds. Aragorn probed around the arrows lightly with his fingers as Boromir hissed in pain.  
  
“The shoulder wound is deep – we need to push the shaft through. The chest, it’s lucky – it has not penetrated more than an inch or so. We can cut it out – he will live if we treat him now and staunch the blood quickly.”  
  
Théodred nodded, still breathing hard. It was all he was capable of at the moment.  
  
He looked up at a movement; an elf and… more stuff of legends – a dwarf with a bloody axe ran to them, halting to stare at the three men huddled on the ground. Boromir struggled again to sit up, his voice cracked, his breathing ragged.  
  
“We must catch them…”  
  
Aragorn pressed him back, “Soon.” he said quietly.  
  
The elf passed over a water-bottle, which Aragorn tipped to Boromir’s lips. He sipped gratefully at as much as Aragorn allowed him to drink.  
  
“We will bind your wounds – bleeding to death is ill gratitude to show to one who saved your life.” Aragorn eyed the Rohir curiously.  
  
Boromir struggled to speak between rasping breaths.  
  
“Prince Théodred… may I introduce Lord Aragorn. My Captain… My King…”  
  
He gasped in pain as Théodred shifted behind him in surprise. Aragorn bowed his head, his hand over his heart.  
  
“Well met Prince Théodred – you have performed us all a great service this day.”  
  
Théodred had no words, he simply inclined his head. Boromir’s hand found his and squeezed it tightly. The Prince saw that this Lord Aragorn had also seen the fond gesture, and how he looked hastily away for just an instant, before returning all his attention to Boromir’s wounds.  
  
What may have passed between them was something Théodred could ignore for the moment. He had acted on his intuition, and for love and duty; they had all survived and that was the important thing for now.


	3. Arrows and Knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

With quiet authority, Aragorn gave swift orders for what was needed.  
  
"Gimli - a fire. Heat your knife. Legolas, I must stay - will you look for the herbs?"  
  
The elf nodded and strode off, vanishing into the surrounding woods noiselessly, while the dwarf gathered scattered twigs for kindling. All the while Théodred held Boromir, supporting him as he shuddered to gain each breath. The battle-rush had begun to leave the Gondorian and pain was beginning to take hold. Boromir did his best to contain his groans as Aragorn took hold of his shoulder, but breaking the feathered shafts away made him scream. With Théodred's help, the two men lifted Boromir to ease him out of his leathers and expose his back for Aragorn to cut his tunic free from the wounds.  The Horn of Gondor had taken a blow in the battle and split in two as they moved him; Theodred set it to one side.  Boromir panted, gasped and swore liberally as they peeled away the blood-sodden cloth. Blood oozed darkly around the bases of the shortened shafts piercing his shoulder and chest; his clammy skin was pale where it wasn't flushed livid purple with rising bruises and streaks of vivid crimson.  
  
Legolas returned, appearing from between the trees as silently as he had left, hands filled with bunches of greenery – athelas.  
  
"Gimli? Is the fire ready?" Aragorn tried to keep the anxiety from his voice.  
  
"Aye …a moment more for the blade to heat."  
  
Boromir's eyes rolled; he knew what they must do, and was afraid, even though he struggled to conceal his apprehension. Aragorn gripped his arm comfortingly.  
  
"I know", was all he said.  
  
Théodred, who had bitten his lip and remained nearly silent through their struggle to rid Boromir of his clothes while causing him the least distress possible, now spoke briefly, a tension that was near to challenge all too evident in his voice.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Aragorn nodded. Boromir groped for Théodred's hand again.  
  
"Let him – it must be done."  
  
Aragorn composed himself as he mentally gauged the wounds, forcing himself to become detached from the thoughts of the agony he was about to inflict. He exhaled slowly, then took a breath.  
  
"Lift him up. Hold him fast," he ordered.  
  
Théodred obeyed after a moment's hesitation, knowing this was vital; they must free the deeply embedded barb from Boromir's shoulder. Between them they tried to lift Boromir. He struggled to help himself, but cried out as his torn muscles protested. Théodred put an arm beneath his, lifting him, holding his trembling body steady.  
  
"Gently," he soothed, running a hand over Boromir's uninjured arm and back as he might a struggling colt.  
  
"Hold him fast," muttered Aragorn, before putting a scant handful of leaves in his mouth and chewing them fiercely; he crouched in front of the two men. Boromir's arm was over Théodred's shoulder, his head hanging low. Legolas was behind them; he took Boromir's other arm and shoulder in a firm grip. Aragorn glanced at each of them; they both nodded almost imperceptibly. Boromir's head jerked up, staring fiercely into Aragon's eyes.  
  
"Do it!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Now!"   
  
Aragorn grasped the first shortened arrow-shaft and pushed hard. Boromir screamed. Legolas' previously concealed blade flashed in his hand as he swiftly sliced open the bulging skin on Boromir's back to ease the arrow's passage. The man slumped against Théodred, deadweight now that he was mercifully unconscious. Aragorn spat the green wad into his hand and hastily applied it to the bleeding wound on the Boromir's back, which Legolas staunched with a wad of torn shirt.  
  
"Gimli!" shouted Aragorn.  
  
The dwarf sprang across with a small knife, its blade gleaming red from the flame. He placed the handle carefully in Aragorn's outstretched palm.  
  
"Quickly! While he knows nothing!" urged Théodred.  
  
The Rohir let Boromir's heavy body fall back into Legolas' arms, as they lowered him onto the bloody surcoat laid on the ground between them. Aragorn swiftly made two cuts either side of the second, more deeply embedded, arrow, lengthening the tear in the skin to pull the barb free. The stench of scorched flesh caught in their noses; Théodred fought down the urge to heave. Boromir stirred, but did not waken. Aragorn eased the knife into his flesh alongside the arrow. Frowning with concentration, his lips tightly compressed, he felt the arrow-head move slightly. Gritting his teeth, he plunged the knife in deeper, twisted it, levering it to pull the cruel barb free. It came out with a gush of fresh blood. Legolas had more cloth in his hands, instantly holding it against the wound to stem the flow. Aragorn grabbed more athelas, crushing the leaves above the bloody gash so the juice dripped over it.  
  
"Here now!" Gimli offered a curved needle already threaded, "Quickly, close it before he wakes again!"  
  
Aragorn's hand shook as he pierced the torn skin with the needle. Legolas pressed him to one side,  
  
"Let me," he said with quiet authority that brooked no argument.   
  
The elf's  fingers were nimble as he deftly secured the open wound with neat stitches. Aragorn found himself shaking beyond his ability to control; he jerked himself erect and stumbled over to where a nearby meagre spring flowed down towards the lake. He knelt among the rocks and plunged his hands under the rippling surface, keeping them there until the chill water no longer ran red with Boromir's blood; then he splashed his face quickly, urgently seeking to regain his self-control. Moments later he returned to the others, as Legolas cut the thread free, his bloody needlework completed. Boromir did not stir; it was Théodred who rocked almost imperceptibly, the Gondorian heavy in his arms.  
  
Gimli broke the silence, "And what are we to do next, then? Do we follow the Ringbearer?"  
  
There followed a moment of silence as they each contemplated their dilemma. Aragorn spoke first.  
  
"No. Frodo has chosen his path. Now… we must make our plans anew."  
  
"What of Merry and Pippin?" asked Legolas.  
  
"My thoughts exactly," Gimli nodded.  
  
"We must go to their aid… but…" Aragorn looked down at Boromir, Théodred kneeling at his side, "we still have others to think of," he said, almost to himself.   
  
Legolas wiped his blade clean and watched the ranger struggle to make up his mind. Aragorn was evidently torn as to the right course, but the elf refrained from offering advice. It was a few moments before Aragorn spoke hesitantly.  
  
"We should help the little ones…"  
  
Gimli nodded agreement, "Aye lad, that's the best course left to us. I would not see them in torment while we could yet help them."  
  
Legolas watched them, "And Boromir?" he said quietly.  
  
"I can look after Boromir."  
  
The elf turned at Théodred's assertion, frowning slightly, "I do not doubt your good intentions, but…"  
  
"We can not just leave them here!" interrupted Aragorn.  
  
"My Riders will come for us; I sent runes home, carved into the saddle, telling where an éorling travels horseless - they will find us."  
  
"If orcs don't find you first!" said Gimli gruffly. "The Elf and I will go after Merry and Pippin – you two should stay and aid Boromir."  
  
Théodred shook his head, "Three will be barely enough for that, two only are bound to fail. Leave us; I will take him safely to Meduseld."  
  
"And what, do I have no say in this?" Boromir's voice was weak and slurred. He struggled to sit up. Théodred and Aragorn both bent to help him.   
  
"You must all go. You must save them… where I could not…" Boromir's voice trailed away.   
Aragorn slid an arm under him; touching Théodred's arm sliding beneath Boromir's other side. The Rohir looked into Aragorn's eyes and read pain and indecision, swiftly hidden by steely resolve.  
  
"We must all go together," the ranger announced.  
  
Boromir shook his head, "I will slow you. Leave me… The Riders will find me… I can seek a high place to watch for them…"  
  
"And who will watch you, lad?" asked Gimli. "No, let us all go together then, but we best make it as soon as we can."  
  
Boromir nodded, "Give me but a moment… I will be ready… Help me to my feet."  
  
They assisted him, although he swayed and had to grit his teeth to prevent himself crying out. As quickly as they could, they helped Boromir down the path to the lake side. Théodred ran to reclaim his discarded pack in the wooded slope above them and followed them down. At the remains of their camp, Legolas and Gimli set about discarding all but the essentials. Legolas pushed a spare shirt of his towards Aragorn's pack, their eyes met and the ranger smiled grimly in thanks. The man's wounds would need more bandages yet, that was obvious to them both. Aragorn shouldered Boromir's shield, and turned to watch the injured man who leant, his back against a tree, visibly attempting to gather his strength. They nodded to each other, but Aragorn could see how white the man's face was. A long, hard run would be the death of him as surely as the arrows might have been. Théodred strode forward and picked up Boromir's pack, pushing the cloven horn awkwardly into the top. Boromir shook his head as he watched him, then took a few steps toward the steep slopes of tangled woodland leading to the plains above.  
  
"I may have need of an arm to lean on," he said without looking at any of them in particular as he walked away from the lake; holding himself stiffly upright by will-power alone.


	4. The paths divide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

  
Legolas sprang away like a questing hound, eagerly following the orcs' clumsy passage through the woods. Gimli plodded behind him doggedly, setting himself a steady ground-covering pace. Behind them, Aragorn sought as easy a route as was possible for Boromir to follow, though he was barely a quarter of the way up the slopes before he had to lean heavily on Théodred's shoulder. By the time they neared the last steep rise before they crested the ravine wall, Aragorn and Théodred were all but carrying Boromir; he struggled on grimly, but his grey-white face and glazed eyes told eloquently of the agony he tried to conceal. All three were breathing strenuously by the time the rolling plains of the rocky downs fell away in front of them.

"A moment," breathed Boromir hoarsely, "just give me a moment…"

They let him slump against a rock. The exertion of the climb had pulled at the freshly-stitched wounds; his wadded bandages were soaked with sweat and blood. Aragorn searched in his pack for the shirt Legolas had left with him to tear into strips, while Théodred passed Boromir a flask of water. He received it gratefully, but could lift it only with one hand. His other arm felt heavy and useless, his shoulder and chest too painful to raise it to his lips. He drank in silence, struggling to regain his breath. The wind made him shiver. He had forgotten his back was near bare and turned to grope to pull up his cut tunic, belted again at his waist. Pain lanced white-hot through his shoulder and he swore liberally in a dull monotone, too exhausted to put inflection and temper into the colourful profanities. Théodred moved behind him to lift the embroidered tunic, now ruined by arrow, knife and blood, into place. He saw that the wound leaked a thin smear of scarlet down Boromir's pale back. Automatically, he brushed it away with his fingers, and felt the icy clamminess of the Gondorian's skin. It shocked him; Boromir felt like a dead man. Théodred drew back with an involuntary hiss.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Boromir half-turned, wincing with the effort.

"Nothing," Théodred tried to reassure him. "I was just thinking how I was going to have to explain to Amah that I helped ruin your clothes. Last time she walloped me."

Boromir's rising laugh turned to a low gargle of pain. "Don't," he breathed, "It hurts when I laugh! Anyway, that was years and years ago!"

Aragorn had found the elves' linen shirt and was tearing it into strips; he chewed and spat more athelas onto a wad of the cloth before approaching them, his hands full.

"Strip the old bandages away and we'll replace them."

Théodred did so, being as tender as he could; he sopped the caked cloths with water to make them peel away more easily. Boromir shook under his touch, gripping his sword hilt hard with his good hand so that his knuckles whitened under the strain. Aragorn probed the wounds with gentle fingers that aroused a sharp hiss at first from Boromir, before he screwed his eyes closed and held his breath. The Dunedan patted a compress of chewed leaf into place as lightly and carefully as he could. That this attention eased him was evident from Boromir's softly exhaled sigh. Aragorn worked quickly, his face very close to the wounds so that his warm breath played over them; Boromir's shoulders gradually relaxed under his ministrations. Théodred couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy shoot through him - something that he did his best to immediately dismiss. Aragorn asked him to hold Boromir's arm raised while he wound the bandage about his chest. Doing so made the man flinch again, but he simply closed his eyes and rode the dulling pain.

"Can you fetch the other flask from my pack? The small one." Aragorn asked Théodred.

The rohir nodded and stepped away from them, his back turned. Aragorn's face was inches from Boromir's, close enough for them to lock eyes. Aragorn's hand crept to the back of Boromir's neck. He paused for a moment, seeking permission, without unlocking his gaze. Boromir closed his eyes once in acknowledgement, and Aragorn kissed him full on the mouth, not a lustful, lover's kiss, but one rich with love and goodwill. Boromir raised his good arm to grip Aragorn's shoulder in fellowship. As he broke from the lingering kiss, Aragorn paused to breathe steadily into Boromir's half-open mouth, his eyes closed in concentration as he exhaled each deep, warming breath.

They were locked so when Théodred turned and saw them, lips parted, mouth almost touching mouth. In surprise he dropped the scarred leather flask. Ducking his head to hide his face, he stooped hastily to retrieve it; when he stood they had parted, though they still gripped each other by shoulder and neck. Théodred heard Boromir sigh, as if something easier flowed through him, as he and Aragorn dropped their arms away from each other. Théodred's hand shook as he held out the flask; Aragorn's eyes were veiled as he took it in silence and handed it to Boromir.

"Only a little, it is strong," he said quietly.

Boromir put it to his lips tentatively. The strong liquor made him cough; it stung his raw throat, but sent a sense of warmth and strength through him instantly. Aragorn retrieved the flask before he took another draught.

"One is enough," he half-smiled, before he moved away to stow it back in his pack.

Théodred helped Boromir shrug his way back into his ruined surcoat; their eyes met. Théodred would have turned away, but Boromir caught his hand. He held his gaze, searching the rohir's face anxiously with bleak eyes. After a long moment Théodred answered the unspoken question with a slow nod - they were still as one.

Théodred helped Boromir to his feet. To his surprise the man stood easily, head up, eyes scanning the plain ahead. Gimli was half a mile away, a small dogged figure pounding the turf at a solid trot. Ahead was a glimmer of gold: Legolas's hair, caught by the sunlight that slipped unevenly between ragged clouds.

"We still have far to go," Theo said.

Boromir gave a brief smile, "Then we'd best be started,"

Aragorn shrugged on his pack and Boromir's shield. Théodred stooped to lift and move a heavy stone a pace or more in the direction they were taking, then placed two smaller stones in the original's hollow.

"You think your riders will follow you this far?" Aragorn asked.

Théodred looked up in surprise. "You know our stone marks?"

The Ranger nodded

"They will follow. My horse will have found his way back, and in any case, the Elves will tell them where I went."

"Elves?" asked Boromir with a frown, "What elves are those?"

"From Dwimordene… Lorien. Their captain, Haldir – he told me… no, he insisted, that I must ride for the East Wall, and refused to take 'no' for an answer. Even though I told him my place was at the Fords...."

"Haldir? You're sure?"

"I am sure! To be woken by a grey and silver ghost who introduces himself so politely… I'm not likely to ever forget him!"

'Or to stop thanking him,' Théodred added mentally to himself, sending up a benison to whomever had given the haughty elf his orders.

"Then… the Lady knows where we are?" said Boromir slowly, as he and Théodred they walked side by side. "And she knows what happen… what would have happened?"

Théodred nodded. "It was why this Haldir said it was so urgent for me to ride as hard as I could. He said my king and my… you – were in mortal danger, and that your quest, even the future of Middle-earth, hung in the balance. What that meant he refused to tell. He said you must be the one to explain…"

Boromir looked across at Aragorn, marching purposefully a few steps away, his eyes scanning the horizon. Aragorn returned the glance, expression neutral, though he must have overheard them.

"I must run ahead and catch Legolas, to see where our paths lie. I will be back. Move as quickly as you can, but don't go beyond your limits."

Then he was off after the elf like a hare pursued by coursers.

They trudged on, Boromir even finding the energy to break into a clumsy half-run, though it left him with no breath for talking. Théodred more than suspected that this was deliberate, because the Gondorian did not want to offer any further explanations of what had happened to him or to his companions. No matter, at present it would keep. Théodred jogged at his side, careful to have an arm ready to catch him should Boromir stumble.

The miles stretched long and hard ahead of them. The sun scudded between and behind the clouds as they followed its path westward, their lengthening shadows raggedly sprawling over the tough grass in their wake. Ahead they could see the three small figures of the elf, the dwarf and the ranger, and it was with worried eyes that Théodred realised that their pace far out-stretched what Boromir would ever be capable of. He glanced across; yet Boromir's head was up; he was breathing hard but he maintained a steady lope.

'He would not give in lightly', Théodred thought, 'and neither must I'.

Over the next few hours, Aragorn repeatedly ran back to check on their progress, which was becoming slower and slower. Théodred had insisted Boromir put an arm about his shoulder, but the jogging strained his torn muscles and now they only managed to stumble on at a fast walk. Although Boromir insisted he could keep going, eventually Aragorn joined Théodred; with their arms about his waist, they nearly carried Boromir for the last league or more. Gimli appeared at the top of the next rise, looking for them.

He watched the trio approach, 'this was not good, not good at all', he thought. He could see that Boromir was at the end of his strength, and the two men's loyalty was not doing them any good either. He stood his ground, waiting for them to arrive, taking a respite himself.

It was some minutes before they joined him by a group of shattered boulders atop the rise. They lowered Boromir to sit on the rocks; he slumped back, his head hanging, breathing raggedly. Aragorn straightened up. He scanned the distance, then the ground; the orcs had passed this way, but the tracks were steadily getting older. They were falling too far behind. Gimli might have read his thoughts: he looked from Boromir to Aragorn and back before speaking aloud.

"You have to make your choice, Aragorn - stay with Boromir, or leave him and come with us." The Dwarf made the statement flatly in a voice that brooked no argument. Aragorn refused to face him; he turned and stalked away a few paces, apparently searching the horizon. Boromir answered in his stead.

"Go with them… I can wait… the Riders will come. They will find me."

"No!" Both Théodred and Aragorn spoke in unison - then paused to stare at each other. Gimli shook his head.

"The Elf and I will go on. We can find the orcs and keep up with them. There will be some opportunity to free the hobbits before Isengard – Or we will make one!" he asserted.

Boromir struggled to sit up. "No. Two are not enough… not against that pack. The four of you should go. Four is few enough, but two alone will certainly do no good – you know that. Do not fail the little ones…"

He did not say 'as I did' but the phrase hung unspoken in the air. Aragorn remained silent. Boromir was right, he knew he was right, two would certainly fail, even four was no guarantee… but he could not just leave Boromir alone. That was impossible!

"I will stay with Boromir. You three, continue," said Théodred with a finality that said he had made his mind up. Boromir started to protest, but the rohir shook his head.

"Yes, you might stay for the Riders to come, but will they find you, or a corpse? If you hide, will you have the strength to crawl out and signal? They could easily ride by without seeing you."

"You've left stone marks. They will follow."

"Only if nothing disturbs the pointers. What if you sicken? If you take shelter and fall into a fever, you may not see them. No, you need me."

Aragorn stared at the horizon, his back to them. He turned slowly, his face set.

"The Prince is right. We cannot leave you alone, and the longer we delay the more hazard there is for Pippin and Merry. Frodo and Sam are beyond my reach to help, but their kinsmen I can aid - and I will."

He stooped to his pack and pulled out his ration of lembas, still wrapped tightly; this he gave to Théodred.

"This is elvish waybread. It will sustain you, though it is meant to be eaten sparingly." He handed over the last of the wilting leaves of athelas.

"If you can boil water without drawing attention to yourselves, scatter some of this in and let him drink it. If there's any left, wash the wounds with it. If you can't make fire - crush it and put the leaves inside the bandages."

Théodred took them with a nod of thanks. Aragorn laced his pack quickly. He picked up Boromir's shield and strode over to where he still sat, his back against the rocks.

"I will look for your coming in Edoras," he said softly, "or better still, we shall meet in Minas Tirith when the trumpets call you home, Lord of Gondor."

"Give me your hand, help me stand…" Boromir stretched out his hand. Aragorn took his arm and guided him to stand. They faced each other in silence, arms clasping each others forearms.

"We will meet again, my Captain… my King..." Boromir said finally. He would have made obeisance on his knee, but Aragorn would not let him sink down.

They clung to each other for the barest moment, holding each others eyes in silent acknowledgement, before Aragorn turned away. He seized up his pack and slung it around him.

"If we see the Riders we'll have them come for you. If we can, we will make for Edoras – after we rescue the Halflings." He did not add '…if we rescue the Halflings' but Théodred read it in his face.

"Good luck to you both" said Gimli gruffly. "I'll hope to see you again, and then you can offer me the hospitality of your halls, Master Horselord."

Théodred bowed in return. "It will be my honour, Master Dwarf; you will ever be welcome at my table"

"Then you'd best make it a good one!" Gimli strode swiftly over to Boromir.

"A short farewell eh? And hope for a reunion to sample some of this prince's beer." He shook Boromir's good hand warmly, then turned on his heel. In the distance Legolas appeared, hand raised to shield his eyes from the lowering sun. Aragorn raised an arm in a slow wave.

"Come, Gimli!"

Aragorn turned to Théodred in passing, speaking quietly. "Keep him safe… his… land has need of him"

Théodred nodded; he put out his hand to clasp Aragorn's firmly in friendship and parting.

"We will return," he said. Aragorn nodded in silence – then turned and sprinted away, the dwarf pounding in his wake.

The two men watched them out of sight, lost in the bright glare of the setting sun. Théodred looked around them – they could shelter here for the night.

"In the morning… when I've rested… I will be much better after a few hours sleep. We can catch up," said Boromir.

Though they both knew that was a very optimistic thought.


	5. Alone in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Théodred gazed around them. There was nothing but rocks and bent grasses between here and the horizon. Perhaps they could hazard a small fire for comfort – eyeing Boromir’s exhausted slump, some of the ranger’s teas would not go amiss either. He began to hunt for winter-dried brush to make a fire. They must hope that tomorrow would see them on their way without hindrance, and pray that riders of his éord were already out looking for him.  
  
Boromir’s thoughts drifted… When Aragorn had breathed the fumes of the athelas over his wounds, the man had felt his spirits lift; his mind cleared as the pain receded to discomfort and his limbs gained strength. Finally, Aragorn had pressed his mouth to his and in that moment… it was like icy-water poured through him, like the jolt of a lightening–bolt. When Aragorn had breathed into his mouth he had felt so calm and at ease… The only pain then was catching a glimpse of Théodred’s shocked face. The rohir had fumbled the flask he was fetching so he could look away from them, but Boromir had seen the distress written clearly in his eyes. It pained him, almost as physically as the arrow… no… not true – that, wound… he’d never known pain like it when Aragorn pushed the barb out through his back. As soon as he could, he’d tried to speak to Théodred, but words were hard to summon; he’d caught the horselord’s hand briefly and had hoped the sad resignation on his lover’s face was not… did not mean…  
  
Coherent thoughts were becoming more difficult. It was half a day or more since he’d inhaled that healing breath, and now the pain was back. His shoulder, side and arm had stiffened so he could barely turn, or pick anything up. His thoughts, too, wandered like meandering water… water… He was thirsty, where was that flask? He struggled to turn over so he could use his good arm to push himself up from where he lay in the lee of the rocks. He had a flask… where was it?  
  
Théodred was worried. After the three had gone he’d decided to risk a small fire and make camp there. The stand of boulders was fissured by a large crevice and overhang, enough so he could build a cairn of stones under it and shield a fire inside. It was dry under there, and big enough to shelter them both. He’d searched for dry brush and grass and found enough to make them comfortable, but he noted with concern that Boromir had barely moved from being slumped against the rocks where he’d left him. He helped him down and made him lie beneath the overhang, resting his head on his pack. While Boromir dozed, Théodred boiled water. With half he brewed athelas tea - the odour was refreshing, but no longer had the curiously strengthening miasma he’d smelt earlier. The rest he used to make a kind of porridge, crumbling in some of the elvish waybread, and encouraging Boromir to eat it with the herb tea. After he had had something to eat and drink, Boromir appeared more alert and they agreed he would keep the fire going, while Théodred scouted the area before they slept. They planned to rise before dawn and start west towards Edoras, hopefully crossing the path of Riders coming east to look for them. But when Théodred returned, Boromir was sleeping fretfully and the fire was nearly gone. He added a little more fuel and pushed the stones closer in, knowing they would stay hot after the fire had finally burnt away.  
  
Now, it was the middle of the night, and Boromir’s body radiated more heat than the fire-stones. Earlier, he had taken off Boromir’s heavy, embroidered velvet coat and, finding needle and linen thread in his pack, had made the best he could of carefully stitching it together. Boromir had been awake enough to pour friendly scorn on his needlework – indeed it did look like a bedraggled spider had lurched across the fabric, but it held together at least. Théodred had simply laid it across Boromir while he went scouting, but he returned to find Boromir alternately pushing it away when the fever became too much, or tugging it up over himself as he shivered, tossing and turning restlessly as the fever-dreams took him. Théodred had pulled out from Boromir’s pack a cloak of fine fur and velvet, now much muddied and travel-stained but still something to warm him with. He had used that, his own blanket and cloak, and eventually his own body in an attempt to stop him shivering, but after a while Boromir would be overcome by the heat of his fever. He’d struggle free, to lay panting and incoherent, mumbling half-thoughts to himself. Once, before the fire died, he seized Théodred by the throat and shrieked, ‘He sees me! We must hide!’ before collapsing into quiet, heart-breaking sobs, and from there to shivering whimpers that a wakeful Théodred did his best to console.  
  
  
In the dim light before true dawn, Boromir had shivered less and had settled enough for Théodred to doze for an hour or so. The sun had nosed above the horizon when he woke – but Boromir didn’t; he lay still, his breathing shallow, with a rattle in his chest that struck fear in Théodred’s heart. He hastened to gather more brush, but now it was wet with dew. He searched under the overhang, and found dead grass and dried roots which he hastily pulled from the ground, sawing at them with his knife. As quickly as his fumbling fingers could manage, he struck flint to ignite the tinder to make a fire and set water on it. All the while, Boromir did not move at all, his face as pale as old stone with the faint sheen of sweat across his clammy skin.  
  
Théodred fretted until the water boiled, then moved as quickly as he could to crush the last of the athelas to make a steaming brew. He struggled to lift Boromir so he could tip a little into his mouth, pouring tiny sips between his cracked lips; eventually Boromir swallowed it, a little at a time. His eyes fluttered without truly opening, but his breathing gradually lost that dreadful, rattling wheeze. Théodred peeled back the bandage at his shoulder; the wounds were livid and angry, stained greenish by the plant; under the swollen, shiny skin lay yellowish pus. He bathed them as well as he could with the rest of the water, scraping out the remaining herbs from the pan and packing them round the wounds. Then he laid Boromir on his good side and wrapped the fur cloak around him, before sitting back on his heels. They would not be going anywhere this day.  
  
He ate a little of the way-bread and took stock of their situation. He could not carry Boromir; therefore, they must wait to be found. All he could do was lay signs in the likely direction the Riders would come from, and then keep watch. A good job they had stayed at this high point, at least it gave him some vantage to see from, but they would need water – and shortly, they would need food. He glanced at Boromir; his colour was pale, but not the ghastly, waxy yellow-white he was before. Théodred stretched, gathered up their two flasks and set off onto the plain, He returned shortly, empty-handed having failed to find water, but Boromir still slept, his colour remaining the same; he seemed no worse.  
  
This time Théodred went further afield; ranging in a great arc, periodically moving stones from their original beds and placing them root-side exposed, a pace or so towards the place they sheltered in. These were the Rider’s stone-marks to show help was needed, an intricate, coded system passed down through many generations. His only concern was that unfriendly eyes might also read them… He had finally found a winter-melt pool and noted its direction from their shelter, then hurriedly jogged back after filling the flasks. Boromir had turned a little, but not much, though he’d kicked the cloak free. The rohir put a hand to Boromir’s forehead, though he could feel the heat even before his fingers touched the skin.  
  
Boromir stirred a little when he eased him up to make him drink, but did not really wake. Heartsick and weary to the bone, Theodred lay at Boromir’s side; and before he knew, he was sound asleep. When he woke, the sun cast long shadows; he sat up with a start, near-cracking his head on the roof of the overhang.  
  
“Good afternoon…” Boromir mumbled weakly with a wan smile. Théodred turned, guilt and shocked wakefulness pouring through him like icy rain.  
  
“You should have woken me.”  
  
“No… you needed sleep. Wanted to… watch you… sleep.”  
  
Boromir struggled to speak, his throat dry. Théodred found the discarded flask and helped Boromir to drink.  
  
“You still should not have let me sleep,” he scolded. Boromir shook his head.  
  
“No riders… heard nothing.”  
  
“But I will just look – and I’ll fetch more water for the night,” said Théodred. “How long did I sleep?”  
  
“Not sure… time… time…not… long”  
  
Already Boromir’s eyes were closing, lucidity drifting beyond his grasp. Théodred silently cursed himself and ran to fetch water. By the time he returned, the sun was setting; he made another small fire, setting water over it. He had some dried meat in his pack which he put to soften in the hot water, hoping at least that he might make Boromir drink this poor apology for broth.  
  
As the sun began to sink, heavy clouds rolled over the sky. It began to rain, slowly at first; but there was no break in the cloud and he feared the weather would become worse. He rolled several loose rocks to one end of the overhang to block it from the threatening rain. The other end was narrower and higher; he pushed dry earth to partly fill it and placed Boromir’s shield in the remaining gap, then took a couple of branches and propped up Boromir’s grey, Lorien cloak as a loose tent across the gap… since the fabric seemed thinner and less warming that Boromir’s muddy fur. He sat back, satisfied with his efforts; if they lay against the back of the cave, they should stay dry. Shortly after the rain came down in earnest, and it quickly became much colder. Théodred fed the small fire carefully, so as not to make it smoke; having made them snug it would be poor wood-craft to have them forced out by fumes.  
  
Boromir came round enough for Théodred to slowly feed him some of the thin broth, though now his side and shoulder were so stiff he could barely move them at all, neither could he make much use of his arm or hand. He wanted to relieve himself, so Théodred helped him crawl to the edge of the makeshift tent, but Boromir was so weak that his friend had to loosen his breeches and hold it for him to piss, tiny amount that it was.  
  
Boromir’s breath hissed between his teeth as Théodred eased the man free of his small-clothes.  
  
“What is it?” Théo asked anxiously.  
  
“You could have… warmed your hands first…”  
  
But Boromir’s soft laughter soon turned to a wracking cough that tore at his wounded muscles and made him gasp with pain  
  
  
Théodred half-dragged him back inside, and Boromir slumped, as exhausted as if he had run for five leagues or more. Théodred settled to sit behind him on his blanket, legs either side of the man’s hips, pulling Boromir to lean back and rest against his chest, then tucking the fur cloak over them both. He pushed away the thought of the moment of pleasure he’d felt in intimately touching his lover, even in such a mundane manner, as unworthy, but he enjoyed the solidness of Boromir’s warm heaviness against him. The man’s breathing steadied and slowed into genuine sleep. Théodred fed the small fire with just enough fuel to keep it burning. The surrounding stones had warmed and the small enclosure had become almost cosy. Théodred found his head nodding, his eyes drifting closed; he shook himself awake repeatedly, only to feel his lids become more and more leaden, until eventually…  
  
It was the snuffling that woke him. The fire had gone out. His face felt cold and his legs were stiff from laying in one place, either side of Boromir. The snuffling grew louder – then a harsh voice. Orcs! Awake now, he had his knife in one hand, with the other he groped to find the blade he knew must be at Boromir’s belt, though Boromir himself was deadweight on top of him. ‘Another voice, another – how many? Listen and count.’ They were near, but not that close. He knew they were well hidden from casual eyes, but a search would discover them easily. He tried to breathe as quietly as possible, conscious that the rain had stopped and would no longer disguise small sounds. He heard a thud and skitter as something heavy slipped in the mud, followed by cruel laughter and harsh words. They were closer!  
  
“They’re ‘ere, I can smell ’em!”  
  
“All you smell is yerself!”  
  
Harsh speech sounded close by; he almost stopped breathing in his effort to be still. He heard the brush of several walkers in the grass, and the thud on the ground as something jumped down from above to land just outside their shelter… but they didn’t see them! They must be blind… or maybe the night was moonless because of the clouds? Far from it, he realised - he could clearly see darker shadows beyond the weave of the grey cloak – and yet seemingly, they could not see it was there…  
  
“Maybe they camped ‘ere and left”  
  
“Nah! Too fresh – and sweet. Makes my mouth water”  
  
“Me too – I can smell ‘im. ‘E’s ‘iding somewhere, that’s for sure.”  
  
“And it’s mine! I smelled it first!”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah!”  
  
“Make something of it then!”  
  
Another thumping struggle took place nearby. Théodred heard grunts and harsh words as the orcs fought, before an even harsher voiceordered them apart.  
  
“I’ll decide who gets what – when we find ‘im… Now, - you! Up there. And you – that way. Look around – ‘e can’t get away”  
  
Théodred tried to ease himself free from underneath Boromir, who gave a soft moan.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Wot?”  
  
“I heard it – it’s ‘urt…”  
  
“Not as ‘urt as it will be when I’ve finished with it!”  
  
Half a dozen harsh voices cackled and called to each other as the pack searched. The snuffling was close – closer – closer… Théodred gripped a knife tightly in each hand – the momentary thought flashed across his mind: Should he cut Boromir’s throat before they were taken?’ Then at least they could not torment him as well – he had seen the leavings of orcs… the sight had made him sick to the stomach.  
  
A foot snagged the grey cloak, followed by a crude stream of foul words.  
  
“The ground’s loose – watch it ‘ere.”  
  
“Wot?”  
  
“The rock’s – soft…”  
  
Something rustled through the underbush outside.  
  
“Soft…? Only in the ‘ead!”  
  
Suddenly the butt of a spear jabbed, jabbed through again and dragged the cloak aside – ugly faces peered inside.  
  
“Well look at that – two rats in a trap. Dig ‘em out!”  
  
Filthy hands reached to grab at Boromir’s legs. Théodred lunged forward to slash and jab with his knives, Harsh screams pf pain, followed by roars of anger and more hands and arms reaching… grabbing. One caught a firm grip of Boromir’s ankle and began dragging him away. The rohir screamed defiance and lunged at the arm, severing the hand at the wrist. Black blood gushed with a foul, dank smell as the beast roared. Suddenly, Théodred heard the thrum and whoosh of arrows fired; he cringed back, snatching at Boromir under the armpits and hauling him back as best he could. More arrows hummed through the air… but to his amazement, none entered their shelter. Outside screams and thuds told him the arrows were hitting home – but whose were they? He could only hope some éorlingas had discovered his stone-marks and come to their rescue – it must be them! He heard the unmistakable clash of steel on steel, but in a few moments there was nothing but an eerie silence and darkness outside the confines of the narrow cave.


	6. To the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Boromir groaned and Théo released his grip. The grey cloak in front of them was stirred, but not by the wind. Slowly it was drawn back; Théodred held his knife high, ready, if need be, to strike dead whatever came through the gap.   
  
"Mae govannen…"  
  
A pale other-worldly face with silver, plaited hair appeared at the entrance. Théodred froze, open-mouthed, knife raised.  
  
"Perhaps you will not need that… " the voice sounded vaguely amused. Haldir's voice!  
  
Boromir mumbled in his fever-dreams.  
  
"We… we never expected such help," blurted Théodred, "…and surely it is most welcome, but here is one in desperate need, if you have a healer amongst you!"  
  
Haldir's face instantly grew grave as he saw the man's waxy pallor. He reached a hand to touch his face and quickly drew it back.  
  
"Come. We must get him away from here to where we can help him."  
  
When Théodred scrambled out from their hiding place he found five grey-clad elves standing over the corpses of eight or more orcs. As a sixth arrived, one of the beasts near his path stirred slightly, he casually turned his drawn sword and effortlessly sliced the orc's throat without so much as breaking his stride. It was done so casually, with no more emotion than treading on a snail, and so deeply that the orc's head dropped to one side, almost completely severed. It was this single act as much as anything that brought home to Théodred that these beings were not as he was. One of them bound another's lightly wounded arm; the others at a few words from Haldir fetched orcish spears and broke off the heads to use the shafts as litter poles. They stripped off belts and used what rope they had to lash the poles to make a stretcher for Boromir.   
  
"We cannot linger, but must make the best time we're able. The Lord of Gondor is strong, but his wounds fester. There was probably no poison, but orc filth can easily be just as deadly." Haldir explained.  
  
"My éored will be searching for me. Take us west towards Edoras and they will certainly find us; we can take care of Boromir."  
  
"I fear he needs more help than can be given out here."  
  
"Then where are we going?"  
  
"We need speed; we shall take the river Onodló north, to meet with others who can help you."  
  
"The river? But we would be half-way to Edoras. Why go north?"  
  
"The plains of Rohan are thick with orcs and wildmen. We are too few; we would have to fight our way through them, and guard a sick man. "  
  
"But… then Rohan needs me!"  
  
"You would not survive on your own on foot – and we cannot go that way."  
  
"My Riders will find us."  
  
"Your Riders are occupied. They are under threat from Isengard."  
  
"Saruman?"  
  
"He coverts your father's land – and your getting killed will not help your people. You must travel with us. Think who we carry! You cannot take him with you."  
  
Théodred was silent. The other elves had finished the crude stretcher and begun to haul Boromir from under the rock as gently as they could. He moaned at the disturbance, though they tried not to hurt him further.  
  
"Careful!" burst out Théodred, though he knew they did their best.  
  
They took the time to stuff the dead orcs under the overhang, since they had no time for a pyre. At least there they would not be discovered so quickly.

"Leave his pack,"said Haldir, "He cannot carry it, neither can you."

Theodred frowned.  "We must travel as swiftly as we can," Haldir continued, "We can provide whatever he needs later."

The rohir reluctantly set it aside, having made sure there was nothing in it other than spare clothes.  The personal things he crammed into his own pack, along with the cloven horn, which sat awkwardly on top.  
  
The elves lay Boromir's fur beneath him to pad the stretcher, and placed his grey elven cloak over him tucking it tightly around his limbs. Haldir forced some liquid from a small flask past Boromir's lips; it which made him cough, but also quieted his low moans. The elf then urged Théodred to drink as well. The liquor coursed through him, fiery and strong; it jolted him to a wakefulness he didn't realise he lacked. It was still dark when they set off at a steady jog, four elves carrying the stretcher. Théodred soon realised that even after the elven draft he would have had trouble keeping up with the other stretcher-bearers had he had his way and taken a hand. As it was, he stumbled in the dark frequently and an injured elf took to running at his side to catch his elbow before he fell. They travelled swiftly for some hours, only pausing to allow Théodred to catch his breath, and for Haldir to force him to swallow a mouthful or two from his flask. Each time it took longer for Théodred to regain some strength: now both the elf and Haldir ran on each side of him, urging him onwards. At dawn they stopped and set the stretcher down, Théodred collapsing to the ground close by it; from where they were he could see the silver line of the Entwash, running north-south across their path, still some miles away. He was shocked; they must have run for nearly 15 leagues through the night! The elves consulted quietly, and then two of them set off towards the river.  
  
"They go to scout ahead," Haldir said. "Even we cannot carry such a burden without tiring."  
  
Théodred crawled across to the litter. Boromir was pale, his brow sweaty and cold. He pushed aside a lock of hair and Boromir mumbled in a fever-dream, but did not open his eyes.  
  
"He does not do well," said Théodred, as flatly as he could manage.  
  
"No. He does not." said Haldir, his face almost expressionless.  
  
"Edoras is not far now…"  
  
"We cannot go there."  
  
"Take us to the gates; my people would not harm you."  
  
At that a slight smile passed over Haldir's features.  
  
"No, they would not…" He walked away.  
  
The wind was getting up, and the remaining elves struggled to move the stretcher into the lee of some rocks. Théo helped them. Haldir remained aloof, standing very still, facing north. Théodred went over to him, walking around so as to stand firm and speak to him face to face. He was startled to see the elf's eyes half-closed, but more strangely than that, the eyes glowing brightly, like molten silver, beneath his lids. Théodred's arm was shaken by another elf who spoke in halting Westron as he pulled the man away.  
  
"Leave him. He speaks to Lord Celeborn."  
  
"How…? began Théodred.  
  
"It is a gift, not all have it, to far-speak each other. My Lady, it is said, can speak to any she chooses – but for most there must be… a special connection."  
  
He would not elaborate, and Théodred could only guess the extant of a 'special connection'. The elves offered him some of their way-bread and some water; he ate hungrily. Shortly afterwards Haldir joined them.  
  
"It will be evening before they can reach us at the earliest. When we've rested a little we'll go to the river and find a place to stay hidden," he said accepting some lembas.  
  
"What of Boromir?"  
  
"He would be no better in Edoras than he is with us."  
  
"How can you say that…"  
  
"Because it is true."  
  
Théodred fumed in silence for several moments, "You bastard!" was all he could mumble under his breath, before he stamped off in an effort to keep from swinging a fist at the elves' calm face. Under control, but only just, he marched back to them, grabbed a water-bag and took it to Boromir, lifting his head to coax him to drink. The water filled his mouth and slid down his chin. Théodred mopped the spilt water up with his sleeve 'Don't die now,' he thought as he crouched beside Boromir. 'Please, don't die.'  
  
The other elves returned and after a short discussion prepared to move Boromir again. One spoke to the others before casually reaching down and laying his palm intrusively over Boromir's crotch. Théodred angrily knocked the offending hand away, glaring up with a snarl on his lips. The flash in the elf's eyes was swiftly hidden as he stooped to pick up the stretcher pole. The rohir, still angry at the unwarranted molestation, tried to shove the elf away and take the litter himself. The push rocked the elf, but left him unmoved; Haldir intervened.   
  
"Do not fight us, Horselord, we do not have time for this!"  
  
They set off; he could do nothing but follow them, still seething, down the long slope to the distant river.  
  
Once there, they made for a small bend in the river that offered a curved shingle shelf above the water-line, half-hidden among surrounding trees. The river had cut away the ground leaving a bank a man's height or more of exposed roots above the dry beach, giving both a headland to keep look out from and a sheltered hollow below. The elves set Boromir in the driest place under the small, sandy cliff. Théodred kept a close eye on them. Haldir came to him.  
  
"We go to scout the banks to make sure we are secure. Gelmir and Gwindor will tend your friend. Neither has much Westron; if you have questions you'd best keep them until I return."  
  
Théodred nodded sullenly. He settled himself with his back to the sandy wall at Boromir's head. The man shifted a little in his fever, but Théo's hand stroking his head seemed to calm him. The two elves stood apart speaking quietly and occasionally glancing across at them. Gwindor was the one who had touched Boromir so blatantly earlier that day. Théodred glared belligerently at them, daring them to approach him again.   
  
The day warmed and the sun shone on the bank; Théodred's eyes repeatedly drooped from lack of sleep. The hot sun was soporific, as was the dazzle on the water a few feet away; his eyes finally closed and he slept. He woke abruptly to find the two elves had taken their outer clothes off and were now undressing Boromir; they had his tunic and boots off and one was pulling his trews from his ankles. Gwindor had his hand inside Boromir's small clothes feeling at his groin.   
  
Théodred launched himself forward with a yell, catching the elf in the centre of the chest with both hands and bowling him over backwards, Théo on top. Struggling and squirming, the two thrashed about on the shingle. Shortly, it was the elf who sat above Théodred muttering furious words Théodred didn't understand. Pinned fast with both wrists held in a vice-like grip, Théo stopped struggling; the elf shifted back off his chest a little. The rohir took the opportunity to quickly bring his head up into vicious contact with the elf's nose. Théo felt a satisfying squelch as it broke under the impact. Gwindor reeled back with a harsh exclamation, one hand to his face. His hand now free, Théodred clawed at his belt for his knife, but the elf swung back, cracking his elbow hard into Théo's temple. He saw stars for a moment, before he continued to struggle up – then all went red as something exploded against the back of his head. He glimpsed through swimming vision the other elf, Gelmir, standing over him. The elf had struck him with the pommel of his long white knife.   
  
When he awoke, he was bound hand and foot, laying on his side; his head ached like fury and he could taste the leather of the gag in his mouth. His vision faltered in the dazzle from the water and it was a few seconds before he could focus. He was horrified and furious at what he saw – they had stripped Boromir naked and laid him on his back. He saw Gwindor run his fingers slowly over Boromir's groin, pressing his fingers among the curls above his flaccid cock. Théodred was outraged. He bellowed through his gag, flailing about in an attempt to stand, but his bonds simply tightened the more he struggled. The two looked over at him; they spoke to each other briefly. Gwindor shrugged, he bent Boromir's knees up slightly more to tilt his pelvis and ran his hand over Boromir's exposed privates. Théodred threw himself over, squirming furiously, struggling to loose himself. Boromir mumbled and tried to sit up; very weakly he tried to push away his molesters with his good arm. They ignored his feeble protest and putting their arms beneath his knees and back, they carried him into the shallow water. Théodred roared and screamed his outrage, muffled as it was by the gag. The shingle grazed his face as he struggled to get to his knees and failed.  
  
The elves set Boromir down; he shivered and cried out as the cold water lapped his fevered skin. They manoeuvred Boromir so he knelt up in the water, Gelmir held him steady. Théodred watched in horror as Gwindor crouched beside the man, rubbing Boromir's groin, cupping his cock and balls with a wet hand and splashing them with water. Boromir groaned and cried out softly.   
  
Théodred was almost crying with frustration and rage. He threw himself over on the ground, desperately twisting to roll over and over towards Boromir's torturers. They ignored him. He kicked and struggled in the shingle, his muffled voice a hoarse scream of wordless pain. Not feeling the sharp stones he struggled along the ground towards them, his eyes fixed vengefully on Gwindor's stroking hand.   
  
Boromir shuddered and mewed softly under that hand, until abruptly, a small jet of dark amber liquid erupted from him, staining the water. Gwindor's voice was gently coaxing as he splashed more cold water over Boromir, washing the stale urine from his thighs. Théodred teetered almost at Gwindor's back; unable to stop his momentum; he missed the elf and fell face down in the river. He lay there half-submerged, floundering and splashing, until Gelmir glanced over with low exclamations of irritation. The elf hastily transferred Boromir's weight to crouching Gwindor's shoulders and back, then he stood upright to step across and grab Théodred by the shoulders and haul his head out of the water. He dragged him back up the shingle for several paces and dumped him roughly out of harm's way near the bank.  
  
Gwindor and Gelmir between them washed Boromir in the river; gently splashing water to loosen the congealed blood smeared over his back and chest, before lifting him from the water and laying him on his cloak. They dried him with his old shirt, carefully rubbing the circulation back into his chilled limbs, before binding up his wounds with clean linen. The cold water seemed to have revived him a little and they encouraged him to sip some water, before they produced a new shirt and small clothes, obviously their own spares, and re-dressed him. The shirt, while long enough, was tight across his shoulders and had to be split at the sleeve seams. The draws fitted him snugly and it was with swift efficiency they laced them closed and pulled his own trews over them again. Finally realising they meant no harm; Théodred lay inert in his bindings. Only now did he begin to feel the soreness of the abrasions to his face, neck and hands where he'd struggled amongst the sharp pebbles.


	7. Wildmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Haldir and the remaining elves arrived back as silently as they had left. Haldir looked down at Théo, bound and gagged, and then at Gwindor and Gelmir. Gwindor obviously protested his broken nose; Haldir looked annoyed at their explanations. He knelt at Théodred’s side, a drawn knife in his hand.  
  
“Do not cry out when I release your bonds. There are wildmen nearby who are not friendly.”  
  
Théodred nodded his head once. Haldir cut the thong that bound the leather pad into his mouth. The man worked his jaw to free the strained muscles. Haldir continued.  
  
“Before I untie you - my apologies - they should have waited until what they were doing could be explained to you. Water must pass through the body naturally or an injured man will sicken and die, even if his wounds appear to be healing. Gwindor knew Boromir had not passed water for at least a day, and that he needed to be helped to do so. It is unfortunate that you misconstrued what they were doing. They only meant to help Boromir, not harm him in any way.”  
  
Théodred nodded. He had finally seen that for himself, and was grudgingly grateful that they had. Even now Boromir’s colour looked a little better than it had; he seemed more asleep than unconscious were he lay.  
  
“Tell Gwindor I am sorry about his nose,” he said gruffly.  
  
Haldir gave half a smile, tipping his head to one side, “Do not worry, he was always too proud of his handsome face.”  
  
Théodred nodded gratefully; he’d have been wary of taking on one of these elves in single combat – when Gelmir hauled him from the water, he’d lifted him clear into the air and thrown him for several feet with no more effort than shifting a recalcitrant hound!  
  
But before Haldir could cut his bonds, an elf cried out in pain; they both turned at the sound. An arrow was embedded in Gelmir’s thigh, another landed beside them; then there were more, striking the ground hard to quiver upright among the stones or skitter across the shingle.  
  
“Orcs!” shouted Théodred.  
  
“Men!” spat Haldir.  
  
He whirled to take up his bow, as with dull, throaty screams a pack of wild men of Dunland charged through the trees towards them. The other elves loosed their arrows rapidly; with a muffled cry, Gelmir broke the arrow-shaft free from his thigh so it would not impede him as he fought.  
  
“Free me! Loose me!” screamed Théodred, but now they were all occupied – fighting for their lives.  
  
The onslaught was merciless. The wild-eyed men seemed to have no fear of death, but blindly ran onto the elven swords as if expecting to survive unscathed. They screamed as they ran, waving long swords, battle-axes, war-hammers… even sickles and pitch-forks; such was their killing frenzy they cared nothing of themselves, but what they could maim and kill. The first onslaught was met by the elves with cool precision as they mowed their attackers down like wheat before the scythe – and still they came.  
  
A man fell dead at Théodred’s fee. He wasted no time in thrusting his ankles at the axe blade still clutched in the headless man’s hand, trying to saw his bonds free. Another man fell over him, knocking him face down into the axe-man’s blood. The horselord shook his face free of bloody hair and continued to saw urgently at his ankle bonds. The second man clawed at him frantically with the feebleness of the fatally injured until Théodred dispatched his attentions with a head-butt that made his own head ache the more. Ankles free, he twisted to rise and stagger across the small curve to where Boromir lay defenceless, but ignored by the Wildmen, who had all their attention focussed on the grimly fighting elves.  
  
Their bright blades flashed and parried under the frenzied onslaught, but blows were hitting home and not one of the grey-clad figures was without stains of trickling blood from some wound. Gelmir was most disadvantaged, blood running freely from the arrow in his thigh; increasingly the wound made him less nimble. The men sensed this and concentrated their attack on him, eventually battering him to the ground from sheer force of numbers. Théodred, wrists still bound, attempted to defend Boromir the best he could, shielding him with his body until a dropped blade enabled him to try to free his wrists again. He never saw the huge man wielding a hammer who struck at his head. The blow never connected; Haldir’s sword laid the man’s side open to the bone. He screamed, but his dying momentum launched him over Théodred and his helmeted head connected with the rohir’s, knocking Théodred almost senseless across Boromir’s legs. Of a sudden he felt his hair snatched up and he was hauled backwards to arch across some hefty knee.  
  
Across the shingle, Gwindor stood over Gelmir’s body, fighting off half a dozen men. Haldir and the others were likewise surrounded, their feet slipping and tripping over bloody bodies. A horn sounded at Théodred’s ear, numbing his hearing so he could barely tell what the big man yelled, but the knife at his throat was clear enough – he froze from struggling as the blade caught his flesh and the hand in his hair tightened its grip.  
  
“Stop now, or I slit his throat!” roared the man.  
  
Haldir sprang back and raised an arm. Gwindor took a mighty blow to the side of his head and slumped to the ground across Gelmir. Haldir shouted a sharp command and the three other elves… just melted backwards into the trees. The men yelled in wonder that they had vanished – and that they seemed to have won the squirmish. Their leader shouted again.  
  
“Hold fast! No one follows them – that’s what they want. They won’t leave their own – and we have ways of bringing them back to us!”  
  
An evil laugh sounded behind Théodred’s head. “As for you, horseboy,” the harsh voice cackled, “We’ve got plans for you as well!”  
  
He clouted the side of Théodred’s head with a huge fist, knocking him to the ground again. Then he strode over to Boromir and quickly ran his hands over his body; finding no weapons he stepped back.  
  
“That one won’t last the night anyway.” he announced to his mob. He turned to Haldir.  
  
“Drop the sword, Elf”  
  
Haldir stood his ground, breathing hard. The chief nodded. One of his men nearest to Gwindor grabbed a handful of silver hair and stretched the fallen elf’s neck back, a sickle to his throat. Gwindor’s eyes fluttered open.  
  
“Drop your sword or I’ll bleed him like a pig!”  
  
Haldir stared at Gwindor, who tried to shake his head free, but was gripped all the tighter. Haldir carefully placed his sword on the ground in front of him. Immediately half a dozen men set on him, punching and kicking him to the ground. Their leader paused to let them have their way before shouting ‘Stop!’ Haldir raised his head, blood trickling from cuts over his eyes. His lip was split and bloody.  
  
“I don’t want him dead – not yet, anyway!”  
  
The wildmen jeered their approval. They began to haul the bodies of their comrades to one side, but showed no courtesy for the dead. The severely injured were dispatched with a swift knife. The living they helped to sit against the bank away from the river, where some among them helped them bind their wounds.  
  
Others found ropes and pieces of leather thong and tied Haldir and Gwindor roughly, pulling their arms painfully behind their backs, forcing them to kneel side by side. Théodred’s bonds were half-cut through, but since they didn’t inspect them closely, he managed to press his arms together and they failed to notice or re-bind his wrists. Gelmir still lay senseless on the ground. The chief went over and kicked his injured leg, when that produced no response, he bent and twisted the remains of the embedded shaft. Gelmir screamed and writhed. The chief stood upright.  
  
“Didn’t think that one was really dead,” He beckoned to his men to drag the elf across to the bank, hauling him upright , his arms outstretched.  
  
“Hold him steady,” commanded the chief. Then he took a knife and cut the laces of Gelmir’s tunic so it fell open. Gwindor growled at Théodred’s side. The chief turned slowly to face them; he deliberately tore open the elf’s shirt to expose his naked body as he watched the deepening frown on Gwindor’s face.  
  
“He’s yours, is he Elf-swine?”  
  
With that he turned back, holding the knife to Gelmir’s bared stomach with one hand, grabbing between the elf’s legs to grip his crotch brutally hard with the other.  
  
“Shall we see what this pretty one has to offer, boys?” he leered.  
  
Gwindor half-rose, but was knocked to the ground by the men guarding them. Haldir spoke softly to him, though his eyes blazed. Gwindor subsided, but his body remained taut as a strung bow.  
  
“Or shall we have a horselord for our entertainment?”  
  
The men roared and stamped calling for one, or the other. The chief raised his hand and beckoned. Théodred was dragged roughly to his feet and forced across the slippery stones to Gelmir’s side.  
  
“Strip them!” the chief commanded. As the men came for him Gelmir lashed out, kicking one’s knee painfully; another man slashed a short knife into Gelmir’s ribs, making a shallow wound, a threat of more to come, to subdue him. Gwindor explode upright, launching himself at the chief, but was brought down by a pack of men who kicked and punched the struggling elf until one finally got him around the throat in an armlock and all but strangled him into submission.  
  
Haldir shouted in Elvish :“Courage. They’ll soon be with us!” before he received a clout to the head that knocked him sideways. Gwindor saw the chief holding a long sword at Gelmir's throat, far enough away not to be kicked again, but able to thrust and kill. Gwindor stopped fighting.  
  
“Make sure he watches everything” the chief leered.  
  
One of the men on Gwindor’s back substituted a knife for the armlock, another seized two handfuls of hair and pulled his head up to face Gelmir.  
  
“You - you’re their leader, tell him to lay still or I’ll cut his friend’s balls off.”  
  
Haldir spoke quietly in their language, “We will have this scum on their way to Morgoth’s fires before Ithil rises. They won’t kill him – the shame is theirs, not his. Remember that.”  
  
Théodred saw the pain in Gwindor’s eyes, and remembered his own anguish when he thought they were mistreating Boromir.  
  
“Aren’t you man enough for a real man then!” he drawled, taunting them.  
  
The wild men set up an ugly murmur. The chief looked at him appraisingly.  
  
“Looks like we got ourselves a volunteer, lads.”  
  
They jeered and cat-called as Théodred was dragged forward. His face was still a bloody mask, his hair caked, clothes filthy with mud and gore.  
  
“But he doesn’t look half so pretty – maybe a bath will help. Dunk him!”  
  
The two men holding him dragged him over to the water and strode in waist-deep to force his head under the water repeatedly, only letting him up when his breath was nearly spent. Then they dragged him out to stand before Gelmir.  
  
“You, Elf – strip him!”  
  
Gelmir ignored the chief. He nodded at the men holding Gwindor, who pulled his head back, stretching his throat before their knife.  
  
“He does not understand Westron,” shouted Haldir.  
  
“But you do. Bring him here!” the chief commanded.  
  
Haldir was dragged across the ground on his knees to Theodréd’s side. The chief gestured for his men to release Gelmir.  
  
“Tell him to strip the horseboy naked or we gut the other one slowly.”  
  
Théodred gave the slightest of nods.  
  
Haldir spoke quietly to Gelmir. “Take the prince’s clothes from him, but do it as slowly as you are able. We will see this rabble rot in their own filth yet!”  
  
Théodred stood upright, stock-still as Gelmir limped forward and made as slow a job as he could of untying the laces to Theo’s trews.  
  
“And you,” the chief pointed at Haldir, “you are going to put that pretty tongue of yours to good use on him. I want to see the horseboy begging for it!”  
  
His men laughed raucously, some rubbed at their crotch in lascivious anticipation. Gelmir loosened Théodred’s trews and they slid down to his hip bones, revealing his pale belly trailed with dark-golden curls. Some of the men whooped in anticipation.  
  
“Too slow!” grumbled the chief.  
  
He waved forward a man with a drawn knife standing at Gelmir’s side As the ruffian approached Theo, reaching with one hand to yank at his small-clothes, the rohir suddenly broke his remaining bonds and grabbed the man’s hands pushing and turning him to stab at the man behind him. As he was pushed closer, Gelmir grabbed the sword at the man’s belt, wrenching it free and lunging to take the chief through the chest. At that instant, the man holding the knife at Gwindor’s throat gurgled and slumped, a knife buried hilt-deep between his shoulder-blades.  
  
Boromir fell forward on his hands and knees, all his strength taken by that one throw. Haldir, lurching up from his knees barged another man to the ground. Gelmir swiftly sliced the bonds at Haldir’s wrists, allowing the Marchwarden to produce a blade concealed in his boot. He launched himself at the nearest men, slashing lethally, teeth barred in a vicious grimace. Gelmir ran, screaming furiously, at Gwindor’s retreating captors. All was chaos, and into that maelstrom, white-fletched arrows began to find their mark in a rain of deadly accuracy. Out on the river, two long, grey craft approached rapidly; bearing elven archers who loosed arrows with devastating accuracy into the confusion.  
  
Without a leader the wild men’s courage disintegrated; those who could, fled, to be cut down by Haldir’s companions waiting in the woods. Gelmir and Gwindor were merciless with knife and blade, as were Théodred and Haldir. Soon, the four of them were the only living beings on the shore – apart from Boromir… Boromir!  
  
Théodred rushed to his side, picking him up from his knees and into his arms.  
  
“Are you all right?!”  
  
Boromir was very weak; he nodded with the barest smile.  
  
“Just… had to… choose… the moment,” he managed to say with an effort. Théodred held him as his eyes fluttered closed again.  
  
The grey boats beached and Elves leaped out, bows at the ready. Among them was an especially tall and noble elf with long, silver hair pulled back into ornate warrior’s plaits. He seized Haldir by the forearms and for a brief moment both of them were locked in each other’s grasp as their eyes drooped half-closed, and under the lids there briefly glowed bright-silver. Théodred watched them, truly knowing the delight and relief they felt in this reunion; his arms tightened convulsively around Boromir. The light faded from Haldir’s eyes and he turned, smiling to the two men on the ground.  
  
“Prince Théodred, this is my Lord Celeborn, the Master of the Golden Wood. He has come to aid Lord Boromir.”  
  
The regal elf placed a hand graciously across his chest in greeting, bowing his head slightly. Théodred all of a sudden felt a sense of awe he’d never before experienced; here truly was a being of power! Lord Celeborn knelt and laid probing hands on Boromir, pulling aside his borrowed shirt to feel his heartbeat, and then gently peeling back the bandages to look at the wounds. He smiled at Théodred.  
  
“Your lord of the stone-lands will live – but we do need to get him to our encampment in Fangorn as swiftly as we can.”  
  
He signalled and elves newly arrived came forward to pick Boromir up and place him in one of the boats. They swiftly gathered the men’s gear and put it with them. Gwindor and Gelmir came over to Théodred as he was about to climb into the craft. Both bowed, Théodred in turn seized their hands between his own two hands and shook them firmly; gratitude on both sides was acknowledged without being spoken.  
  
Celeborn and Haldir followed behind them, speaking softly together in Elvish.  
  
“What news of Rohan?”  
  
“They withstood the attack on the Fords, although with many losses. Now a second force marches against them,” said Celeborn.  
  
“We should warn him.”  
  
“Not now. He would ride alone against Saruman’s army without a thought; as yet his people may have need of him.”  
  
“Surely they need him to fight…”  
  
“And if the fight goes badly? They will need him even more to lead those that remain.” Celeborn did not add ‘if any’, but the words hung in the air as they neared their boat. The craft containing the two men had already pulled away from the shore.  
  
“No – the quest still stands on a knife-edge. What aid we can give, we will give to these two at least. They still have their part to play in this war – even if I do not see it clearly as yet.”  
  
They climbed into the remaining boat and the leaf-shaped paddles of the rowers cut deeply into the water, taking them north, as the setting sun cast their long grey shadow across the river.  
  
Downstream from the little shore, the water flowed, tainted red, but swiftly running clear as the blood became diluted by the river and dispersed. Even now the crows began to gather and the flies buzzed. By next spring there would be nothing left on the shingle but a few scattered white bones.


	8. Holding on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

It was long after dark, but the elves still paddled northwards against the swift flow of the current. Théodred could see nothing more than the shadowy bulk of trees lining the dark banks until the clouds blew away. Even then the Moon was waxing gibbous, its light a mere gloaming, but that did not seem to impede the elves. They paddled hard, steering through the uneven currents, finding slack water to paddle through wherever they could.  
  
Théodred held Boromir in front of him, resting his body between his legs, taking the man’s weight against himself in a bid to keep him upright and ease his ragged breathing. Next to them, Gwindor did his best to bind Gelmir’s leg and staunch the bleeding. Another of the elves handed him a small flask, and Théo watched first one, then the other take a small draught. Their concern for each other, and obvious relief to still be together, was something he could easily understand. Turning, Gwindor touched Théodred’s arm and indicated he should drink as well, then gestured that Boromir should also have some of the brew. The elf held the flask to the man’s lips, but Boromir was semi-conscious again and twisted away from the flask. Théo hushed him and held his head steady while Gwindor dribbled the potent liquor into his mouth a drop at a time. Forced to swallow, Boromir almost gagged, but Gwindor persisted and after a short while the draught took effect and the man’s eyes flickered open. He smiled reassuringly at Théo and nodded, a barely perceptible movement, before sinking back against the horse-lord’s shoulder. Gwindor patted Théo's arm, a small gesture of sympathy, tantamount to admitting he could do little more for them at this time.  
  
They travelled until the Moon went down before pulling towards the bank. The two craft beached on a mud flat and the elves rapidly disembarked, stretching cramped muscles. With quiet efficiency, they shared water and lembas among themselves; some rubbed each others' tired limbs and stiff shoulders. Haldir came to where Boromir had been carried to higher ground.  
  
“We will take a short break before we travel on. Walk around to ease your legs. I will stay with him.”  
  
Théodred was reluctant, but in truth his thighs and knees were painfully stiff and his back ached with tension from the unaccustomed sitting position on the floor of the boat. He walked a short way downstream to stretch his legs and relieve himself in the bushes. It wasn’t long before the elves were climbing back into the boats, each changing sides to paddle to even the strain on their arms and shoulders. In a short while they were on their way again, heading as swiftly upriver as they could in the dark, until the dawn. Then they rested again, but only for little more than an hour before setting out once more.  
  
During this time, Lord Celeborn came to Boromir to check his wounds and supervise their being re-bandaged. It was clear that the man was sinking; even Haldir's face betrayed his worry. The Gondorian was pale, his hands cold and near blood-less, his face still and set with barely a flicker to indicate he lived. Even when they stripped away the dried, blood-soaked bandages he scarcely stirred. Lord Celeborn spent several minutes with his hands on Boromir’s head and heart, willing life to remain there, while Théodred fidgeted like an over-stretched guard dog, ready to snap and snarl at any moment. After rising from the examination, Celeborn whispered quiet instructions and the boats were reorganised so that the two men were placed with him and Haldir, the better to keep an eye on them both. Before they set out again, Haldir and Théodred coaxed some more liquor down Boromir’s throat, but by now his swallow was the barest reflex. Théo sat in the boat with Boromir propped against him and Lord Celeborn seated behind. A quiet voice spoke gently in Théo's ear.  
  
“Sleep will be of help to you, Prince. Rest now, we will watch him for you.”  
  
Théo felt warm fingers grip his temples lightly, and all unexpected, a delightful lethargy rolled over him as the authoritative voice murmured in his ear. For a moment or two he struggled against it, but the quietly insistent voice urged him to relax, to sleep… and he knew nothing more.  
  
The sun was low in the west when he woke; head couched on his arm, still drowsy, he frowned… 'I must have slept the day away!’ Then he realised Boromir was not against him; panicked, he scrambled to sit up. Boromir was opposite him, half-laying in Lord Celeborn’s arms, his head against the elf-lord’s chest; the man’s face was so deathly pale now that for a terrible moment Théodred thought he viewed a corpse.  
  
As if reading his mind, Celeborn spoke softly.  
  
“He lives.”  
  
At first the Rohir thought the soft glow about the two was the low sun, but then he realised the light emanated from Celeborn himself. The elven lord had his arms loosely clasped around Boromir, one hand at his temple and the other over the man’s heart. Beneath that strangely glowing hand, Théo saw the slight rise and fall of Boromir’s chest, but oh, so slight…  
  
“Can… can I hold him?” Theo ventured, suddenly in awe.  
  
It was Haldir, seated at Celeborn’s side, who answered.  
  
“Later perhaps. At present my lord holds his life within him. Lord Boromir has become too frail to hold on to it by himself.”  
  
Théodred gave an involuntary sob, hastily muffled as he bowed his head to hide swift tears. He felt a light touch on his back, and heard words he did not understand. Haldir translated.  
  
“Gelmir says, ‘there is no shame in sorrow for a loved one. Only keep hope alive, and trust in his love for you’.”  
  
Théo could not bring himself to reply, afraid his voice would break in an unmanly way; he nodded without looking up. The warm hand remained on his shoulder, gripping it gently but firmly as Théo's whole body shook with newly released grief.  
  
The craft slipped swiftly through the water as the paddles dipped and rose rhythmically. All was quiet except for the rush and splash of the water and the man’s muffled weeping. Very softly, a sweet voice began to sing, others soon joining in, and the river resounded with an elven song borne westward on the wind, a hymn to Elbereth for comfort in troubled times. After a while, Théodred’s grief seemed to ease and he found himself slipping back into sleep, but this time he did not struggle against it.  
  
It was after dark when they shook him awake.  
  
“We will camp here for a few hours to rest, and start again at dawn.” Haldir told him.  
  
“Where’s Boromir?” Théodred looked around in panic.  
  
“Lord Celeborn holds him still. He will sit with him through the night.”  
  
“I want to be with him.”  
  
Haldir led Théodred up the shallow bank to the group of trees where the elves had made camp. Some already tended a fire ready to boil water; others unpacked bed-rolls or hung long strips of finely woven material, strung between with tiny bells, seemingly at random from the branches. Théodred looked puzzled at such frivolity as hanging ornamental banners in a temporary camp.  
  
Following his glance, Haldir answered his unspoken question. “They divert the wind – and none but an elf can negotiate the banners without the bells ringing. You'd best have an escort if you need to go outside their perimeter.”  
  
Théo looked dubious, but watched Haldir thread his way silently through the maze of the overlapping banners, only to have them ring out clearly when he tried to follow. Inside, he was surprised, the air was indeed warmer, without a hint of a breeze. Haldir took him to an inner pavilion where Lord Celeborn rested, still lightly holding Boromir in his arms. The man’s face could have been chiselled from white marble, so pale, but serene in repose. Théodred’s heart leaped to his throat again as he remembered the faces of the stone funeral images in the Hallows above the White City, where he and Boromir had secretly explored when they were little more than boys. The thought flashed into his mind with a pang of dread that Boromir looked exactly like one of those dead kings of old, until he saw the faint rise to Boromir’s chest. He knelt beside them and reached out an unsteady hand. Boromir’s face was cool, but soft, with no trace of the chill rigidity of death.  
  
Celeborn answered his unspoken enquiry.  
  
“He feels nothing. He walks in dreams, but not yet in darkness. You might ask him about it when he wakes, but I doubt he will remember anything to tell you other than a clear light behind the mists he wanders through.”  
  
“You know this for certain?” Théo blurted out.  
  
“I see some of what he sees. Do not fear for him, Prince of Horses. He is not willing to leave you yet.”  
  
“But what can I do?”  
  
“Wait for him. He will always wait for you.”  
  
Celeborn leaned back as Haldir took his place on the roll of blankets behind his lord, supporting Celeborn’s back against his chest, while Celeborn held Boromir across his lap.  
  
“Get some food and come back to us later,” said Haldir. “He will be safe here.”  
  
At the mention of food, Théo realised he was hungry. At that moment, an elf arrived with bowls of some sort of stew that smelt delicious. Théo's mouth watered unexpectedly. The new elf touched his elbow.  
  
“Come – eat with us. Lord Celeborn and Lord Haldir require some time alone. I will bring you back to them shortly.”  
  
As he watched, Théodred saw Haldir’s eyelids droop; beneath half-closed lids his eyes glowed like brightly polished silver, just as his lord’s did as he rested against Haldir’s shoulder. And the slightest touch of a smile seemed to curl Boromir’s lips, as if he too felt the joy of their communion. Théodred allowed himself to be led away, to sit with the others and enjoy a bowl of hot food for the first time in days. But his glance kept drifting back to the nearby hanging banners and the soft glow behind them, steady as moonlight on a still night.  
  
From time to time, the elves changed position as pairs came and went and he realised they were taking turns to stand guard around the camp. Having slept all day he was wide awake now and reluctant not to take his turn - here at least was something he could do to be useful. He found the elf who spoke Westron and asked if he might join the picket. They agreed, and two of them held the wind-curtains aside, though try as he might Theo couldn’t avoid making them ring quietly. Outside, there was a light but chill breeze. Why that didn’t make the banners ring he couldn’t fathom, but after a time he shrugged and accepted that that was simply how they functioned.  
  
He prowled the woody knoll for nearly two hours, seeing nothing but night creatures and his fellow sentries, exchanging nods of greeting, and the occasional few words with those that had Westron – all seemed calm. It was well after midnight when the orcs attacked - a sudden and deadly eruption of violence.


	9. Attacked in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The first Théodred knew of the assault was a sudden sound of rushing figures, pounding up the long slope of land behind the knoll – then black-fletched arrows stung the ground at his feet. Fifty paces away, he saw the elf he’d recently passed drop to the ground, an ugly arrow-shaft through his throat. Théodred unslung his borrowed bow and notched an arrow, yelling the alarm with all his might as he did. He let fly into the silent, huddled mass running towards them, his cries echoed by nearby sentries who also found themselves suddenly under attack. The camp was roused. More and more elves leapt from the sheltering banners, bows notched and firing at the hordes who now gave evil tongue to their hatred. The first ones fell before the elven archers but more orcs followed, trampling heedlessly over the bodies of their fallen. Orders were shouted that Théodred could not understand, yet he held his ground the best he could, finding his own spot among the archers. In no time his arrows were spent, but still the ugly brutes pressed forward. Other elves came from behind, having been given mere moments to seize swords and knives. They prepared to stand and fight hand to hand.  
  
The elf who had brought the food shouted urgently at Théodred to go back behind their line. The rohir felt insulted, ‘…I have skill at arms!’ but the elf shouted again.  
  
“Lord Celeborn cannot fight!”  
  
Instantly Théodred understood: for Celeborn to loose hold of Boromir would be to kill him. He turned and ran; the gap behind him was closed instantly by seasoned elven warriors. He thudded through the trees and banners, distressed to realise they rang in other places than where he ran, for that meant the orcs had broken the perimeter. Not caring, he dragged the fine banners aside or down in his haste. Once, he stumbled over a fallen elf, his wide-open eyes sightless, three arrows deeply embedded in his chest.  
  
“Boromir!” Théodred screamed. A hulk lurched at him and he slashed fiercely, hearing a satisfying roar as his sword sliced home. A retaliatory blow from the orc staggered him, but the horse-lord rallied and hacked again and again until the orc dropped, lifeless. Ahead he saw the pale glow that silhouetted more dark grotesque shapes in the darkness, and beyond them the flashing white knives of the elves. He saw Haldir’s silver hair whirl as he spun and slashed at the attackers, his face a mask of snarling rage. At his side Gwindir dispatched death with equal ferociousness. At his back, Gelmir, disabled by his injured leg, fired arrows over their heads to keep back the second wave of attackers. Headlong in his rush, Théodred charged towards the group defending Lord Celeborn. He screamed his war-cries to the night, hacking left and right to clear a path to the beleaguered elves. Surprised by the attack from the rear and not realising he was one alone, the orcs fell back a little, enough for Théodred to carve a path to Haldir’s side.  
  
“How many?” shouted Haldir.  
  
“I saw forty,” shouted Théo, avoiding a lunging pikestaff wielded by a scarred brute with fearsome tusks. He slashed down towards a knife-wielding hand and felt satisfaction as his sword hit bone.  
  
“Forty and more from the other side also…” Haldir’s sword whirled in a blur of steel and death, now blocking with his shield, now, slashing to kill and maim.  
  
“…and we are less than thirty.”  
  
“Less than that– I’ve seen dead elves,” shouted the horse-lord, parrying a rushed attack that left his opponent skewered. Théo braced his foot on the orc's chest to free his blade from its' ribs.  
  
Gwindor yelled a vehement cry that could have been challenge or curse as a huge orc lumbered forward, already stiff with arrows piercing the mail on its arms and shoulders. It wielded a great axe in a mighty arc that clanged against Gwindor’s sword, sending numbing shock-waves up the elf’s arms. A second orc thrust at him with a wicked spear of jagged metal that caught Gwindor’s shoulder half-spinning him around. With a great roar the giant orc lifted his axe to deal a death-blow, but froze – a grey arrow from Gelmir’s bow through its exposed mouth. The orc toppled forward, its momentum catching Gwindor off-balance, crushing him to the ground. Gelmir screamed and hobbled forward to defend his companion; he dragged long-handled white knives from his back-harness, standing astride Gwindor’s body screaming defiance. The spear-bearer jabbed at him and Gelmir took its throat with a double slash of the wicked blades. Théodred stepped over Gwindor and took the next orc in the ribs. Gwindor, stunned but alive, tried to scramble backwards, his shoulder running with blood that stained his whole sleeve; the jagged wound had left his arm useless. He slashed at another orc with his good arm as Gelmir staggered to his injured side to shield him from more howling orcs.  
  
Another vile orc swung a war-hammer that narrowly missed Théodred, though the beast’s spiked armour raked the Rohir from hip to thigh as it fell forward, its belly spilling blood and guts from the slashing blow of the horselord’s sword. Théodred scarcely felt a thing; the battle-lust was on him and he screamed defiance at fanged faces as he thrust and parried. The elf on Haldir’s other side slumped to the ground under the onslaught from three of the beasts. Haldir dispatched one’s head in a mighty swing before returning to his own battle.  
  
Behind them, the glow behind the banners grew steadily brighter and brighter, until it illuminated the whole glade. The orcs grew fearful and faltered in their attack. Suddenly a mighty figure of living silver flame, too bright to look upon, burst from the inner screen. Lord Celeborn, an elf-lord of old in all his power and glory launched an attack with a long, curved blade of glistening death, slicing through armour, flesh, bone. The orcs wavered before his wrath, and fell back. The Elves took heart and renewed their desperate defence. The orc’s retreat became a rout, then headlong flight as many of the beasts fell over each other in their efforts to escape.  
  
Some stood their ground and fought on, back to back, bellowing defiance at the surrounding Elves, now in no mood to allow merciful escape when friends and comrades lay dead and dying. Théodred slumped to his knees for a second to catch his breath… Boromir! He scrambled up and staggered through the torn fabric, the bells trilling in his wake. Boromir lay on his side, his head pillowed by blankets, absolutely still. He might have been sleeping peacefully, except now he glowed softly with pale light, as if the moonlight had descended and shone out through his skin. Theo fell to his knees and crawled towards him – Boromir wasn’t breathing! His mind reeled with grief – Lord Celeborn had let him die! But then of course, he was their lord, he had to fight for his people… but in releasing Boromir he had let him die! His Boromir was dead… dead… dead.  
  
He stretched out trembling fingers to the beloved flesh, fearing to touch skin he knew must be cold, so cold now, but desiring above everything to caress his lover just once more. The glow from Boromir’s flesh illuminated his own fearful fingers. His hand that hovered above Boromir’s face glowed rosy in the light that shone below it – yet he felt no warm breath issue from those so familiar lips.  
  
“Boromir…” he whispered, “Oh, Boromir…”  
  
“Touch him not!”  
  
The voice from behind was a whip-crack command. Théodred whirled with a snarl at his lips – ‘how dare they order me!’ But before he could speak, the still flame-brightness, but now bearable, form that was Lord Celeborn swept by him, and the force of his passing caught the horselord unawares, like a huge wave rushing past. Caught in the turbulence of the air, Théodred was pushed sideways to fall sprawling to the ground. His hand was at his knife as he scrambled up, but instantly his arms were twisted back and held fast by Haldir in an unyielding iron grip that brooked no argument.  
  
“You let him die!” shouted Théodred.  
  
No one spoke.  
  
“You let him die…”  
  
Théodred slumped forward onto his knees, not caring if Haldir’s grip broke his arms, not feeling anything but the dull pain that Boromir was dead. The grip on his wrists eased, but his knife was taken from his numbed fingers. His hair in disarray over his bowed face, he could only whisper his own lament – ‘you let him die…’ Hands held his shoulders, preventing him from moving forward, but not as a prisoner, more as a child might be safeguarded from harm. He was dully aware through closed eyes that the silver flame of the elf-lord had intensified. He tried to open his eyes, but was dazzled and had to screw them tight shut - but still, there was not blackness, but red glare through his eyelids.  
  
He heard soft words he did not understand, words of power that sent shivers through his flesh to the very core of his being. Even the ground beneath his knees seemed to shake briefly, and as suddenly as the silver flame flared… it was gone. Haldir’s hands released him and Theo blinked away the after-spots of red from his vision. When he could finally see, Celeborn was just taking his mouth away from Boromir’s parted lips. The elf-lord pressed down on the man’s chest with the flat of his hand – and Boromir gasped.


	10. Théodred falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Théodred was dumbstruck. Boromir had been dead; he knew he had been dead! Haldir's hands on his shoulders now urged him forward to where Lord Celeborn again half-cradled Boromir in his arms. Théodred seized Boromir's hand without hesitation – the flesh was soft… and warm! Not properly warm maybe, the skin felt chill, but no more than holding the hand of someone who's just come in from a winter storm. Théodred did not dare ask for explanations, he was too overcome, too fearful that all this might yet be taken away from him. Haldir spoke.  
  
"Lord Celeborn placed some of his own essence in the man's body and carried Boromir's fea with him in his own – it was the only way. We could not allow ourselves to be defeated, or have our Lord taken or killed by the yrch."  
  
Théodred nodded without really understanding; that it was done and it worked was enough for him.  
  
"We do not know how this may affect Lord Boromir – he may remember, he may not – we can only hope he has not been damaged by it…" Haldir's voice trailed off, but it was clear that his concern was for Celeborn. Haldir shook Théodred's shoulder gently.  
  
"My lord needs a little time to recover; such division of his power is draining. To keep two alive…" Haldir shook his head. "We must leave them for a short while."  
  
Théo nodded, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to, but understanding the need to recoup one's strength after battle. He stood and almost immediately stumbled as his leg refused to hold him. He looked down; one leg was lacerated from hip to knee, his trews torn and soaked with blood. He stared uncomprehendingly, until he remembered the orc's spiked armour – obviously it had done more than just graze him! He plucked at the fabric of his trews and noted with detached interest that his forearm stung where his sleeve pulled against dried blood. Somehow a blade must have caught under his vambrace and cut his arm. Straightening up, he also felt bruises on his back and shoulder… He nodded ruefully; it was ever thus – only after a battle did you truly feel the consequences. He allowed Haldir to escort him away, now noting the darkening red that streaked the elf's silver hair and the two long rents in his leather coat, the cut edges tinged with blood that wasn't the black gore from dead orcs.  
  
Outside, the pale morning sun gazed on a sorry sight – the Elves gathering their fallen comrades. Five had died. The orcs they threw into a heap. Any still alive were dispatched with controlled distaste and a swift knife, the only mercy the elves were prepared to offer. Théodred blinked in the dawn light, not entirely sure what his role should be now. Warmth – water to bathe wounds – tea to soothe jangled nerves and take pain away – he decided to re-kindle the fire. He hobbled across to a former hearth, only to find it partly blocked by the body of a large orc. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of charred flesh, then grabbed at the thing's belt to heave it clear. It barely budged at his first effort; he heaved again. At his next effort he had help from two strong hands – Gelmir! Theo smiled in delight – the last time he had seen the elf, he was desperately defending himself and Gwindor. Theo looked around '…where was Gwindor?' Gelmir's face was grim, and the Rohir kept silent – now might not be the moment to ask.   
  
The two of them heaved the charred corpse off the fire and dumped it some way away; the two of them both hobbling from their leg wounds. As they dropped the body, Theo caught another disgusting whiff of the roasted flesh – this time his stomach rebelled and he bent double, retching and heaving until nothing at all was left but bile that seared his throat. All this while Gelmir stood at his side, patting his back in friendly sympathy. Théodred wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then stooped to snatch a tussock of grass to scrub his chin and mouth. They limped back towards the fire together, each holding onto the other, both in danger of falling over – but now with an air of comradeship between them.  
  
Gwindor crouched by the fire, trying to strike tinder one-handed and getting angry because he could not make a spark. Another elf brought a bucket of water and each of them gratefully drank, then poured it over their heads and faces. Gwindor made a remark that made the other two elves laugh aloud. Théo looked puzzled, realising that the joke involved him, but not understanding it. As he lifted the bucket to fetch more water from the river, the elf translated, "Gwindor says …you only just about make one good warrior between the three of you!"   
  
Théodred grinned, yes, that was true: he had one good leg and one good arm, Gwindor looked as if his shoulder had been broken as well as pierced by the spear. Gelmir still had an arrowhead in his thigh, and now also livid purple bruises darkened one side of his face and jaw. One eye was half-closed, while one ear was notched and bleeding, dried red streaks trickling down to disappear inside his mail collar. They looked at each other – then Gelmir said something that even Théo could understand. 'Yes… but look at the other fellow!' They laughed. It felt good to be alive!  
  
Over the campsite drifted the eerie quiet pierced by brittle laughter that Théodred knew well '…so all battles must be alike, no matter who fights them,' he pondered. He kept a close eye on Haldir, anxious for news of Boromir's condition, but not wanting to intrude on Lord Celeborn, whom he now regarded with awe bordering on fear. He kept himself busy aiding where he could, until someone pointed out his own leg needed tending. His trews were blood-soaked and dried hard to his skin in dark clots; he decided the best option was to soften the cloth by bathing in the river before trying to remove them.  
  
Hobbling down, he found several Elves had already stripped off to wash in the flowing water under the watchful eyes of armed sentries, their bows at the ready. He stripped off his armour and boots, shucked out of heavy leathers and shirt, and waded in waist deep, hissing as the chill water reached his privates; he took a breath and sank down, immersing himself completely. Some moments later he emerged and shook his head, tossing back long, wet hair that sprayed nearby bathers in cold water. They protested mildly, amused at the Rohir's exuberance; he dropped back into the water with a splash and floated for a few minutes letting the current take him down river before someone thought he was drifting too far and called him back.   
  
More Elves were at the bank when he returned, some helping the more seriously hurt to clean gaping wounds. Several obviously had basic battle-dressing skills; they checked for broken bones, and cleaned and stitched wounds. He strode dripping out of the river and paused to examine his slashed forearm; maybe it needed a stitch or two… One of the healer-elves came to him as he attempted to ease the ruined fabric from his leg. The elf offered him a drink from one of the small flasks of liquor, then carefully peeled down his trews. The lacerations formed a series of deep flesh-wounds down his hip and thigh, bloody, but not dangerous. The elf dashed a little of the liquor over the slash on his forearm. Théodred gritted his teeth and held his arm steady as the elf deftly drew the edges of the wound together, sealing them with neat stitches using a slender, curved needle. Thin oil that stung and coated his skin yellow was then poured over his leg before it was tightly wrapped in cloth bandages. Théo held up his trews and instantly gave up on the idea of repairing them. He was loath to throw them on the pile of dead orcs, finding it distasteful even to leave his cast away rubbish among those beasts. In the end he threw them among the scattered boulders by the river's edge. The fibres would rot, and some bird could pull them apart for nesting material…   
  
Haldir came down to the river, crouching to sluice his head with water which washed away most of the blood from his hair and neck. He left the dark, dried clots in place to seal the scalp wound until it could be dealt with later, at the larger encampment at Fangorn. Theodred eagerly followed him back up knoll, pausing only to find his pack, strip off his wet small clothes and pull on his worn and much-darned spare trews. Behind them, the Elves prepared to break camp, helping the injured to the boats at the river-bank and gathering bedding and packs. Lord Celeborn appeared carrying Boromir in his arms, as lightly as if he were a child. Théodred rushed forward.  
  
"How…?"  
  
Celeborn nodded solemnly , "He stays now, and sleeps in me – but his body needs urgent attention. The wounds fester, and loss of blood has severely weakened him."  
  
Théo padded anxiously at the elf-lord's side as he strode to the boats; there they waited while gear was stowed, along with the corpses of their dead. They would not leave them to be defiled by animals or passing orcs, but neither had they time to dig a proper grave. Wrapped in cloaks, the dead elves were laid in the prow and along the centre of the boats; two injured elves insisted that they would sit with them. Théodred watched in silence, realising that among the dead were those who were more than mere companions to these two, who mourned openly. He recalled his own anguish when he thought Boromir was dead and was moved with sorrow on their behalf. There were fewer able-bodied elves to paddle now; Theo would hear no argument against him lending a hand in paddling the craft. 

He stowed his armour and heavy leathers under a bench; he still had Boromir's gear as well, his shield, his fur-lined cloak that he had bundled around the cloven horn to keep it safe - it had been in Boromir's pack, but Haldir had insisted they abandon what was not essential that first night out on the plain, and since Boromir could not carry a pack... Theo had put the two pieces awkwardly in his.  Theo had retrieved Boromir's cloak to wrap it in when they took to the boats; he well knew the store Boromir set on his ancient badge of office.  The rohir's hands lingered over the muddied cloth, before he pushed the bundle safely under the bench.  Haldir took the other paddle at his side. They pushed the boats from the shore and set off, keeping the grey craft as far as possible away from the main currents that opposed them.   
  
It was a long day's paddling; several of the elves had not their full strength due to injury, or grief. Théodred kept up with their stroke, though his shoulders and arms burned with the effort. They made brief stops, to ease cramps and pass water, but never for more than a few minutes. Increasingly, Théodred's leg stiffened, so that he had to hold it straight out before him; the exertion made him so heated, he frequently had to splash water on his face as he paddled. He also tried discreetly to 'accidentally' splash water in his lap; his groin felt hot and his balls were becoming tender and swollen. He put it down to the unaccustomed friction of the turning, dipping movement that paddling the boat involved.   
  
But as the day wore on, the skin over his hip and belly and up his side became hot and sore; it itched badly – 'must be these old trews' he thought, though cogent thought was becoming difficult to maintain. He was tired… the lack of sleep… the fighting… he made all these excuses to himself as to why he felt increasingly ill. Haldir watched him, noting his flushed skin with some concern. When he'd helped the prince from the boat at their last stop he'd seen Théo's bare torso under his open shirt; the skin tight and shiny, spidery lines of an angry red spreading as an unhealthy rash upwards from his hips and belly.   
  
It was sunset again as the trees either side of the bank began to thicken, seeming to grow darker and taller as the party of elves and two men approached Fangorn forest. Theo shivered. All his life he had heard tales of dark, wild things living in the depths of these woods, things evil and unexplained, and now he had no choice but to go amongst them. Haldir watched him from the corner of his eye, how he winced with almost every stroke, his armpits and shoulders had obviously become painfully sore. Haldir turned to him and touched his arm, nodding towards the eastern bank. Two elves, grey-clad almost invisible, emerged, seemingly from the ground, waving hands in greeting. Further on, others stepped forward to be seen by the river-craft; two turned and sprinted off into the trees to alert the encampment. Haldir called across the water; the sentries acknowledged him and withdrew, vanishing into the increasing murk like magic. Théodred caught the occasional glimpse of a shadow flitting through the trees, and realised they had an escort. He felt more comfortable because of it, but still found it difficult to shake off a growing, numbing lethargy  
  
They came to a wide bend in the river with a broad shore of fine pebbles and sand where grey-clad elves with lanterns were waiting for them. They helped to beach the boats and unpack the gear, allowing the exhausted party to walk unfettered. They had also bought litters with them, obviously expecting wounded; there was new distress when they saw that the dead arrived with the living. The corpses were lifted out with reverence, and placed on the litters. Gelmir and another badly injured elf who could not walk were also urged to lay on the stretchers. Gelmir protested, but his leg was swollen and stiff; it was clear that he could not walk far, if at all. The litter-bearers looked on curiously as Celeborn stepped out of the boat, still with Boromir in his arms. He refused their offers of help and strode forward, proceeded by four elves as point sentries to clear the way.

Theodred climbed shakily from the boat his legs felt weak, ' _...must be from sitting'._   He remembered the cloak and pulled it out, holding it to his chest as he stepped from the craft.  At that moment his legs gave way and he staggered dizzily, almost fell, arms reached to grab him as he almost fainted and in the moment's confusion the bundled cloak fell into the water.  The Elves were more concerned with the man than the cloak and in seconds the current had taken it; surprisingly, it floated, slipping through the water that tugged at the folds of the fabric.  Theo protested they must catch it, but it had drifted below the surface and out of sight before they understood what he wanted them to do.  Theodred felt too detached to be distraught, he wondered vaguely at his own calmness, but decided it was fatigue - he was just... so... tired.  He would explain later, ' _... perhaps they could cast nets and dredge it up?_   _Tomorrow he'd tell them tomorrow...'  
_

The fresh escort helped the injured, while a few remained behind to deal with hiding the boats and gathering packs and gear before they followed the main group. There were no other litters available, but Theodred assured them he could walk. Gwindor insisted on lending Théodred his arm, for which the man became grateful when the path became rough and difficult as they moved away from the river-bank. Haldir walked behind them; several times Gwindor caught Théo around the waist when the Rohir stumbled. Exhausted from the day's paddling and increasingly fevered, Théodred staggered more and more frequently until eventually Gwindor supported him constantly, even though the elf's other arm hung useless at his side.   
  
From the short distance they walked behind, Théodred kept an anxious eye on Boromir, who lay across Celeborn's arms, head resting on the elf-lord's shoulder like a carried child. His face was unnaturally white even though he appeared only to be asleep. Théo noticed Boromir's skin was still faintly luminous, as if subtly glowing from within – ' it must be a trick of the light,' he thought. They wound their way through deeply tangled woods in near silence, the canopy of leaves above them hiding the grey-pink sky of dwindling twilight. After a while the trees thinned a little and they entered an open glade divided by a tumbling stream that filled a round pool, before emptying over rocks and flowing on through dense trees into the darkness beyond. Three huge trees stood at the centre of the glade, and among the towering trunks Théodred saw platforms built between wide branches, lit by shielded lanterns. Below and between the trees were hung arrangements of wind-banners, like the ones the elves had hung at the previous night's camp. Small fires were lit around the camp and the smell of cooking roused eager anticipation among the weary returning Elves.  
  
Haldir had for a while had his arm firmly about Theo's shoulder to guide him; Gwindor still supported him at the waist. Théodred's leg burned like fury, as did his balls, which felt heavy and tender in their sac, so much so that the slightest pressure made him wince and caused him to walk splay-legged – it felt like the first time he'd ridden for a full day when he was a child. He suspected his thigh wound festered, he was hotter than he should be, and maybe a little light-headed…? But in Haldir's eyes - the man burned with a raging fever and stumbled badly, almost at the edge of consciousness. Elves dressed in long robes came to lead the injured and examine those borne on litters – 'evidently their healers,' Theo thought hazily. Then, abruptly, the ground spun up to meet him; Gwindor cried out in pain when the whole of Théodred's weight pulled at his damaged shoulder as the man fell.   
  
Hands gripped Théo to break his fall, his vision swam and he felt himself lifted as faces clustered around him. He saw silver hair swirl across his face, then felt its softness against his cheek before he recognised the bloody scalp-wound as being Haldir's. He was being carried in the Marchwarden's arms like a child. He noted absently that the elf's neck smelt of white flowers and sandalwood… before he sank into utter darkness.

Footnote:

The bundled cloak was taken by the swirling river, bowled along beneath the waters; heavy, but not sinking, bourne along in safety undisturbed by river creatures, unseen by beasts or men.  The cloak had been made with love, and ancient charms for safe-returning, stitched into every seam by Boromir's amah, a final gift from her before he left Minas Tirith, and to the city of its making it would return, carrying its precious burden.  The fabric loosed to catch the current and the water flowed into and through it.  All the while the current held it in fast water, avoiding trees stumps that might snag, boulders it might be dashed against, guiding it throught the marshy courses of the Entwash and into the great rolling stream of the Anduin.  Down, down, to where one grey morning, a man noticed something out on the water, a glimpse of white amongst what might have been an animal pelt or a length of rag.

Faramir waded into the water as the current bore the swirling fabric to him, and floating amidst it, tied to it with leather carrying thongs was the Horn of Gondor - and it was broken.  Knowing Boromir would never abandon it, knowing he had thought he heard the distant note of the horn, but half thought it a dream... Faramir took the horn up and the cloak, and carried the cloven horn back to his father.  And Denethor wept for the son he believed he had lost.


	11. Hands of the Healers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Théodred became conscious of hands undressing him; he swore at them and tried to bat them away when they came to his small-clothes, but the hands were firm and relentless, cool as they ran over the scalding flesh of his belly. He shivered beneath them, but they grew more intrusive, feeling down his hip-bones, over the tight, heated skin of his groin and down between his legs. He tried to lash out when he felt his sac cupped; a distant voice shrieked and swore when they pressed his balls and pain seared up through him like hot irons. A little after that, he found he couldn’t move his arms and legs properly, they seemed fixed, as if held, or tied. Again the hands assaulted him; they lifted his knees and parted his legs and he felt… ‘No… no, no, no!’ They introduced something hard and cold into his back-passage, a thin wand that they pushed up remorselessly far, holding his knees down and apart so he couldn’t protect himself. The far-away voice screamed thinly and gave vent to fluent curses – he hadn’t thought Elves knew words like that, particularly rohirric ones…  
  
It was mercifully withdrawn, voices murmured about ‘high fever’ and ‘not swallowing’, before a second icy wand probed inside him unmercifully, try as he might to clench his muscles and refuse it access. It slid still deeper, angled to brush over the sensitive bud within him; his pelvis jerked uncontrollably and to his shame he felt his cock swell and harden - but it did hurt so… The probe twisted and a liquid feeling of stone-coldness swirled through him as fluid was released from it. They twisted the unforgiving rod again; it thrust against the sweet-spot once more and with an involuntary spasm of his hips he felt himself come, the sensation felt like he was pissing molten metal. He roared - and realised the previous, thinly shouting voice had been his own.  
  
Not yet satisfied - his tormentors, having withdrawn the cold wand, stuffed something stubby and firm up inside him. He squirmed and tried to buck, but he was held too firmly. Another oiled wad followed the first, pressed deeply into place by a single finger. He snarled and thought he’d severe that finger and wear it around his neck as a trophy - if they ever let him go! The thought drifted as he felt warm water poured over his belly, trickling with delicious coolness over his sore balls and running delightfully down between his legs. Another flow of water surged over him as he was washed with soft cloths; he twitched with disgruntled pleasure. The cloths moved down over his hip towards his wounded thigh. He hissed and swore, raging as much as his diminished strength allowed as he tried to struggle up. The hands paused and withdrew. He felt his head held and a cloth laid over his nose and mouth. He struggled to shake it away, but one hand tweaked his swollen balls painfully. His sharp intake of breath made him inhale the pungent fumes from the cloth – and he sank back into uneasy dreams where he could feel himself being touched and washed all over, his wounded thigh tended then tightly bound… but he no longer really cared.  
  
He was roused by the scent of something acrid burning under his nose. He turned his head away, but the sharp smell moved with it; he struggled to wakefulness and with a great effort opened his eyes. Théo tried to focus on the two, no, three pale faces above him, but when they moved he couldn’t follow them. A face came closer, a face he knew, he felt his head lifted as a voice urged him to drink. The cold water felt good on his parched tongue; he wanted more and tried to grab the flask but his arm didn’t seem to move properly. The voice spoke quietly, admonishing him, and he caught the word ‘slowly’. Not wanting to lose the water, he did as he was bid and sipped from the cup held to his lips – this was more than just water, he could taste something else now, metallic perhaps… but not unpleasant. They helped him drain the cup and laid him back. He was in a bed, the blankets tucked tight so he couldn’t move his legs, his head on a pillow… He must be ill. The familiar face returned… Haldir – the face was Haldir… And memory surged back – but it was jumbled, fragmented – Théodred struggled to make sense of it all as Haldir spoke slowly to him.  
  
“…your wounds are infected… the orc’s armour… poison in your veins…”  
  
“You are very sick…”  
  
‘…I know that!’  
  
“…the Healers want to send you to sleep…”  
  
‘…no… no …where’s Boromir?’  
  
“…to help your body heal itself…”  
  
“Borrr –ommm…” Théo could manage no more than a slur.  
  
The faces looked at each other – Haldir nodded to Théo, “He lives.”  
  
“Whh-eee-re… Borrr- ooo…?”  
  
“Near. They have cleaned his wounds and watch over him constantly.”  
  
“Ssssee… him. Wan’ toooo seee…”  
  
“Soon.”  
  
“Nowwwww…!”  
  
“He sleeps…”  
  
“You lieing… so’thing wrong…”  
  
Haldir bent even closer; he looked Théodred squarely in the eyes.  
  
“He sleeps as he did before – with Lord Celeborn’s help. His fea is not entirely returned to his body – we don’t know if it will. First his body must heal, to become strong enough to hold his spirit – so the two can become whole again…”  
  
Théodred held the Marchwarden’s steady gaze. There was an unspoken codicil to his words: ‘…if he becomes whole again’.  
  
Théo struggled to speak, but realised the water had been drugged after all. He felt himself beginning to slip away – for a brief moment he thought he saw in Haldir’s eyes… in Haldir’s eyes that glowed now like molten silver… Boromir’s face, sleeping, lips touched with the slightest smile… then Theo sank back into softly enshrouding, dreamless silence.  
  
Haldir sighed; he straightened up from the bed and looked over at the two Healers.  
  
“How long?”  
  
“He is strong. The medicines we placed inside him will help his body fight the poisons in his blood…”  
  
“How - long?”  
  
“If he survives the next two days, then he should heal.”  
  
Haldir nodded thoughtfully. “He fights his own siege even as his people fight theirs.”  
  
“However, the lord of Gondor…”  
  
Haldir looked up.  
  
“…we don’t know what will happen. We don’t know how strong his fea is, or whether it will remember the way back to its body. Lord Celeborn was rash…”  
  
“Lord Celeborn acted out of compassion! Do not question his motives!”  
  
“My Lord…” the Healer bowed, “I only meant, we have no knowledge of what this may do to an adan – we know little enough of what would happen to ourselves, so seldom has the like ever been attempted – It is not within our memory.”  
  
“Lord Celeborn poured a measure of his own spirit into the lord of Gondor – the man’s fea sleeps in his; it did not leave him entirely, nor was he retrieved from the Gift of Men.”  
  
“Nevertheless my lord, an adan may be changed – we do not know how…”  
  
“First, heal his body. When he wakes, we will deal with… whatever we have to.”  
  
The healers inclined their heads as the Marchwarden left them to their work. They were diligent, they would watch and wait with interest… and hope both men survived. In the meanwhile… they had other injuries to treat.  
  
Théo drifted in darkness; he felt himself rising, but he neither walked nor climbed. Eventually he began to see twilight shades around him, and it seemed as if he walked over the Mark at dusk. No horizons held him; the farthest he could see was to where the greying of the sky met the greying bluish distance of the ground. As he walked nothing seemed nearer or further than it had been before, although he seemed to have been travelling for some time – or was it merely for a few steps?  
  
Abruptly he found himself before the doors of a mighty keep, whose walls he could not distinguish or describe, they simply – were. There were no gaps in the door to see through, but he knew that inside would be warmth and cheer and comfort… the like of which perhaps he’d only dreamt of… From inside he could hear the noise of merry-making: table-drumming as warriors welcomed their kin home; laughter and distant music; the regular stamp of feet that meant dancing. He knew there would be fires and ale, good meat and fine company, stories to tell and songs to sing, harpers and warriors, poets and kings… but somehow he was reluctant to enter the great hall.  
  
He stood a step back from the door. There was something… something he felt he should have done, still had to do... He simply knew he was not quite ready – it was something he needed to stay here, at the door, and think about. Yet wave of welcome and fellowship flowed from the hall, as intangible as warm breeze on a hot summer’s day, surrounding him with comfort – yes, he did want to enter. He found himself smiling at the thought as he lifted his hand to reach, to grasp the great iron ring that would open the door…  
  
He heard his name called, first from within, and then from behind him. He paused, his hand not yet touching the iron ring. He heard his name again, a double echo, one in front and one behind – each voice warm and familiar, a much loved sound that made his own name a caress when the voices called to him. It was the light that made him turn away, a light he felt, first, rather than saw: a brilliant light moving across the featureless plain towards him, as fast as a galloping horse. But if there was a horse he never saw one, just a living silver flame shaped like a man, who vaulted down lightly and ran up the steps of the hall to stand before him. Why was an elf-lord coming – what did he want with him? Théodred shielded his eyes, for the brightness was too clear, too brilliant – even through closed eyes he could see the shape of this being of light imprinted red on the inside of his lids. A soft voice called his name, much closer now; so familiar but he couldn’t quite remember it… The voice said ‘Stay - for me…’  
  
Théodred didn’t realise his hand now rested on the wood of the great door. The timber felt warm and alive under his fingers. His eyes had adjusted a little, and through screwed up lids he tried to face this stranger. Again the voice spoke,  
  
“Theodréd, look at me. Stay. We have many miles to travel yet. Many sights to see, rivers to cross, plains to ride…”  
  
But Théodred felt intolerably weary. ‘…couldn’t we go inside the hall and rest awhile before we start this journey?’ But the silver flame shook its head. The shape inside held out its arms in invitation – and this time Théo thought he knew the voice that spoke his name and took his hand from the living door. Boromir! But… where were they? And why should his Boromir be cloaked in silvery flames that furled and spread about him? Fascinated by the play of light, Théo took a step towards the being who seemed to be Boromir, but he seemed to take a step back – a game! Théodred did not want to play some stupid game; he wanted to hold and to be held, by the strong arms and warm body he knew so well. He took several quick steps and seemed almost able to touch Boromir – for it must be him… wasn’t it? Though the dancing argent remained beyond his reach, finally he could see inside the light. Boromir smiled that dazzling smile that Théo loved and remembered; it always meant that Boromir had got his way. For a second Theo felt peevish ‘…so he thinks he has what he wants, does he? But what about what I want?’ He heard… or felt, the laughter and joy behind the massive door, and he half-turned to go back to the warmth he knew was inside.  
  
“Théo, wait, there is something I have always wanted to say to you, but there never seemed the right time....”  
  
Boromir’s voice seemed just behind him, but it could as easily have been from a thousand leagues away…  
  
“Théodred, stay – for me. I need you, your strength. I want you to come for me. I need…  
  
The soft voice was tinged with sorrow, so it seemed to Théo, as it slowly faded until he barely heard the final words…  
  
“…I love you…”  
  
Theo turned away from the great hall and faced the living flame. ‘…yes, that was the something that he needed to do. He needed to wait for Boromir. He needed to answer him…’ He reached out his hand towards the light and took another step, then another, as the silver being receded away from him. All of a sudden he was at the head of the broad flight of steps - then he was rushing down it and the bright, molten silver that was also Boromir was flying away, out of his reach… no matter how hard he ran to catch him.  
  
He felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his belly. He doubled over in agony…  
  
…and he was in bed, an elven healer staring anxiously down at him. His body convulsed with another spasm of agony. He tried to curl up in a ball, but the tight blankets restricted him. Another spasm racked his belly – he made a huge effort and turned over onto his side – and vomited over the elf’s shoes. The elf 'tutted’ in annoyance, but ignored the mess and wiped the horselord’s face with a cool cloth. He helped him to drink, pure water this time, holding the man up in the crook of his arm. The elf only allowed him a few sips, then propped Théo up on pillows. He felt incredibly weak. Even holding his head up was an effort, but he knew where he was – in the elven encampment in Fangorn. He knew the orc’s spiked armour had poisoned his body - and that now he was going to get better. He had to. Yes – that was it! He had to be well for Boromir’s sake.  
  
They coaxed him to drink a few drops of liquor from a small vial, and then a few more sips of cooling water. His lids drooped as he drifted into a natural sleep – his last thought… he hoped the elf whose shoes he’d ruined was the one who had shoved a finger up his arse – it would serve him right!


	12. Lord of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Théodred woke in the night to find he’d been laid on a cot beside Boromir, their beds near enough for him to edge under Boromir’s blankets and augment them with his own quilt. He pushed their pillows together and slid as close as he could, relieved to find that Boromir was warm, rather than having the corpse-like chill he half-expected to feel. He threw an arm and leg across the man in the familiar way they had of sleeping and lay tightly against him, comforted by the warmth and the quiet rise and fall of his breathing. He sighed with contentment and soon drifted back to sleep, determinedly pushing from his thoughts all doubts and fears, simply concentrating on the fact that, once again, Boromir slept in his arms.  
  
Light glimmered strongly through the surrounding curtains when he woke. At first he did not recall where he was, only knowing the familiar feeling of Boromir’s warm hip pressed tight under his thigh; he rubbed himself against it, as he was often wont to do, and felt himself swell deliciously with a lazy, morning erection. He moaned softly with satisfaction, sliding his hand up under the man’s nightshirt, over his muscled chest, finding a raised nipple before slipping his palm lingeringly down to skid over the plane of Boromir’s stomach and slide through the treasure-trail of coarse curls to his – flaccid, disinterested cock… ‘surely, he’s not that deeply asleep?’  
  
In that instant, Théodred remembered, and blushed with shame, his erection wilting of a sudden; he felt like someone had thrown icy water over him. Unbidden tears sprang to his eyes and he clung to Boromir, a whirlwind of emotions flowing through his mind - shame, dread, anger, fear, desperation. He wept in silence for several minutes, his body shaking, his lips pressed tight so as not to betray himself, until he felt a stir in the air behind him and deliberately heavy footsteps reminded him that there were attendants here. Théo quickly cuffed his face dry and made a performance of stretching as if just woken, then turned and sat up in bed.  
  
“We have brought some warm water – if the Prince would like to bathe? We’ll wash the lord of stone…”  
  
“No!” Theo was more abrupt than he meant to be. He made an effort to smile before continuing, “I will wash Lord Boromir from now on… And why do you call him that?”  
  
The two healers glanced at one another, then one spoke, “His country – it translates as Stone-land, does it not?”  
  
Theo nodded. He felt much better this morning; he stood and stretched upwards mightily, before he realised the short night-shirt revealed much more of himself than was reasonable. Not that he was prudish about nakedness, but such a display seemed rather indecorous in front of these near androgynous elves - ‘Why, they might even be female, with their long loose hair beneath the hooded, flowing robes – it was difficult to tell!’ He stood hands on hips, which settled his shirt to decency, and lifted his chin.  
  
“And I’d like some proper clothes brought to me – when I have washed.”  
  
He stared at them until they bowed their heads and withdrew, leaving behind them two buckets of warm, steaming water, a basket of wash-cloths, and soaps. A large, shallow metal pan was pushed into the far corner with a wooden rail at the side draped with flat-woven towels – ‘these elves certainly believed in taking their comforts with them’ – something that at this moment he was grateful for. His leg had only a light bandage over it now; he unwound it carefully and found the wounds scabbed and healing, though the surrounding skin was still pink and shiny. There probably wouldn’t even be much of a scar in a year or so. He stripped off the shirt and the dressing from his arm; the wound looked sound, and another few days and the stitches probably could come out. He bent and wrung out a cloth in the bucket before sniffing the soft soap – sandalwood and white flowers, a little sweet for his taste. Familiar, but he couldn’t remember from where…  
  
He stepped into the metal pan and lathered his body vigorously, eventually giving in to the temptation of sliding a soap-slicked palm over his newly tumescent swelling. With a few slippery strokes he was significantly eager under his fist; he glanced at Boromir, but the still, overly-perfect lord was not a sight he wanted to be reminded of… He thought instead of a supposed hunting trip, allegedly to inspect the pastureland surrounding Minas Tirith, but really an excuse for healthy young men to indulge their appetites in the woods – he’d never looked at the ripe juices dribbled from a crushed peach in the same way again! At the thought he came with a smothered cry, furiously bucking his hips into his fist, and wondered ruefully if these curtains muted sound as well as wind!  
  
As he washed himself clean with the rich white soap, he finally recalled the origin of the vaguely familiar scent – this is what Haldir smelled like. He was only glad he had already relieved himself before he brought to mind the elf’s muscular chest, and those strong arms around him. It would have seemed a betrayal when Boromir lay… Boromir. He slopped water over himself from the bucket, rinsing his body and legs. He reached for towels and dried himself briskly; behind knees, up thighs and between, over belly and chest to underarms. The textured flat-weave of the towels was unfamiliar, but pleasant. ‘Soft, he was getting soft… longing after fripperies’, he scolded himself, but secretly he admired the elves who managed to fight like fiends with supreme bravery and skill, yet still equip themselves with the niceties of life. He shrugged on the woollen robe rather than his nightshirt again after washing; it made him feel too much of the invalid to put it back on.  
  
Going to Boromir, he pulled back the bedding and with some difficulty raised him enough to strip the nightshirt from him. He was heavy, but he moved like a man deeply asleep rather than with the dead weight of the unconscious. Théo slid fresh towels under him, wrung out wash-cloths and, beginning at his face, worked his way down Boromir’s body. Carefully he wiped his way over every limb, taking pains not to soak the bedding beneath the sleeping man or the bandage around his chest and shoulder. He lifted the light dressing: the two wounds were puckered, the flesh beaded with black stitches that crossed the seams of skin neatly in ordered rows. Boromir's flesh was a little warmer there, but not with the angry, fevered heat of infection as it had been; now it was swollen and pink, but Théo could see it was healing well. With an effort, Théo knelt at the side of the bed and pushed Boromir over to lie on his side while he gently cleaned around the exit wound. He wiped his back and buttocks, pushing the soapy cloth between his thighs, before drying him scrupulously. When he stood up and pulled him to lay flat again – Théo was slightly startled to find positive proof of why the Elves had nick-named Boromir ‘lord of stone’ ; it had nothing to do with Gondor!  
  
‘Proves he’s alive!’ thought Théodred with a grin, but what was he going to do with it? Well, he had to wash him… He hesitated slightly; for it seemed a bit like taking an unfair advantage, but then he resolutely wrung out a fresh cloth and soaped it in his hands. At the first touch Theo practically undid himself as a surge of blood took him unawares. He tried hard to ignore his own growing eagerness, waving stiffly in front of him between the folds of the open robe, seemingly with a life of its own. Théo smiled at memories of happier times when an occupation such as this had been a precursor of pleasure for them both. After a hard day’s riding, the luxury of hot water, soft towels and privacy in his quarters in Meduseld had been a delight rarely afforded, and much appreciated, by both of them. And even as his flesh grew hot in memory, the thought came unlooked for… ‘what would he do without...?’ He would carry on of course: become king in his time, sire children as was his duty, rule fairly, defend his land… and ever regret the one who was missing from his life… He pushed such thoughts away to pay attention to the task in hand… Concentrating on Boromir made his arousal even worse, for the ‘lord of stone’ showed no signs of subsiding anytime soon. But Theo persevered, perhaps taking a little longer than was strictly necessary to wash around, above, below and between the mighty Gondorian… thighs. He made a cursory visit with a hasty cloth down to Boromir’s feet and back up to…  
  
  
‘This would not do!’  
  
Théodred gave himself a quick tap on the end – it stung, but it was nowhere near enough… if anything it had the opposite effect! Theo moaned, his hips writhing involuntarily; the much-stretched skin desperately wanted to be touched, slicked, held… He closed his eyes, paused, and hit the head hard with a vicious flick of his wrist, following for good measure with a desperate twist of the sac. He yelped and stuffed the wash-cloth in his mouth, forgetting all about the soap.  
  
It was probably the soap that finished it – all desire departed. He rinsed his mouth furiously, spat and wiped his tongue, grateful to note Boromir had also deflated. He dried the man quickly and thought with a rueful smile how he would make Boromir squirm with embarrassment in front of his éored by telling them the long, and suitably embellished, tale of ‘Boromir and the Bed-bath’. Because they would be together again, to tell tales around the camp-fire, or across the heath over foaming mugs of good rohirric ale, to lie again in each other's arms… of course they would!  
  
A foot stamped outside the curtain in lieu of a knock. Théo spread a hasty towel over Boromir’s midriff and wrapped his own robe closed.  
  
“Come.”  
  
The healers returned with both fresh clothes for Théodred and a covered basket and tray; for the Lord Boromir’, they told him, and made it quite clear that when Théo had dressed they had their own tasks to fulfil here. The healers cleared away the wash things and while they carried out the washing-pan between them, Theo donned his unfamiliar clothes. On their return he was fully-dressed; his own boots had been included in the pile of clothes. The healers bowed, but held the curtain open for him to leave.  
  
“The Marchwarden is waiting for you below,” One elf said firmly. “Lindir will escort you,” he added in a voice that wasn’t to be gainsaid.  
  
“I will be back.” said Théodred, and allowed himself, somewhat mistrustfully, to be ushered out into the care of the elf waiting outside the curtains.  
  
He had a fair idea of what sort of ‘medicine’ might be under the cover on that tray, and he felt extremely possessive about where some strange elf might be putting it.


	13. Strange dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Lindir smiled and introduced himself cordially, and together they walked slowly down one series of stairs. On the flet below they found an open area where a contraption of harnesses and massive counter-weights was stored. Théodred realised when Lindir approached him with a substantial leather belt that he was to be dangled over the edge and lowered to the ground like baggage. The ‘prince’ in him protested the indignity. ‘I can walk!’ he assured the elf, but Lindir refused to hear protestations.  
  
“This is much easier – and I’ll be coming down with you. The belt is only because you are unfamiliar with the ropes. Lord Haldir would feed my sorry carcass to the yrch if I dropped you!”  
  
He said it with a cheery grin and had Théodred belted before he knew it. Lindir stepped into a wide stirrup of leather at their feet and showed Théo how to do the same.  
  
“Hold on here …ready?”  
  
Théodred had barely nodded when Lindir swung them off the edge of the high flet and out into space. As they swung, he released a rope, and they plummeted to the ground. A yell came unbidden to Théo’s throat, which rapidly became a whoop of excitment! The counter-weight slowed them before they hit the grass too heavily, but Théo still staggered a little, while Lindir, of course, simply sprang free of his stirrup with a graceful bound. A small group of Elves grinned at a slightly sheepish prince, aware that he had compromised his dignity somewhat with that shout. Lindir clapped him on the back,  
  
“Do not worry – we do it for fun sometimes as well. And some of the flets in Calas Galadhon are ten times as high!”  
  
The rohir was cheered by this, and impressed as well – ‘that would be quite a ride!’  
  
To Théodred’s surprise the tight leggings he’d been handed that he thought too narrowly cut over the backside, had more ‘give’ than he had first supposed. He found he was less restricted in walking than he thought he would be; though he was aware that they moulded to his hips, thighs and buttocks rather more closely than he was used to – and the occasional covert glance he received as he passed wasn’t entirely to do with admiring the needlework! Actually – he quite liked it; though vanity was not a general flaw in his nature, to be considered attractive by such beautiful beings was a lift to his spirits. From always being considered, tall, well-proportioned and admirable, he had been feeling somewhat diminished and over-awed among these universally graceful, powerful Elves.  
  
Lindir escorted him through the screens of sheltering banners; to Théo’s chagrin, he managed to ring every one on his way, announcing his progress with trilling bells. Finally he was in a sheltered area equipped with table and benches, and though he hadn’t walked all that far, he was grateful for the excuse to sit down. Another elf bought plates of cold meat, fresh bread warm from the pan, cheese and a jug of water, then he and Lindir silently vanished behind the banners.  
  
As Théodred ate, Haldir appeared, equally quietly, from another direction – this was becoming a little unnerving. He nodded to Théodred and helped himself to the food.  
  
“You slept well?” Haldir enquired, as he cut his meat with a small knife from his scabbard.  
  
Théodred nodded, mouth full.  
  
“Good.” They ate in silence for a few moments.  
  
“I would like to speak to Lord Celeborn,” Théodred said.  
  
Haldir nodded, “And he would like to speak to you – when we’ve eaten.” He helped himself to some slices of bread, drizzling spiced oil over them. Shortly after, they were joined by some other elves, among them Gwindor and Gelmir, who although he was mobile, walked awkwardly with a pronounced limp. More plates were brought through by Lindir, who also came to join them. There did not seem to be any strict hierarchy, just an easy protocol of doing whatever needed to be done – something that Théodred found admirable. Previously, he had assumed the Elves would operate under the same formal strictures that Gondor seemed to for Court life - everyone knowing their place and being bound by it. Little, if any, of that rigidity could be seen here.  
  
Over the casual meal people came and went. Théodred felt himself cheered by the company, even if he couldn't understand everything that was said. Those that spoke Westron made an effort to translate jokes for his benefit, and, all in all, he thought it felt like any other camp he’d visited, this friendly camaraderie and banter amongst comrades in arms. When Lord Celeborn came to join them towards the end of their meal, no one saluted, but the other Elves discreetly moved away, while plates of fresh food appeared with magical efficiency as he sat down. Théodred did the elf-lord the courtesy of waiting until he had eaten before making anything other than small talk, by which time he was alone with Lord Celeborn and Haldir, the others having silently vanished about their business.  
  
“You spent a more comfortable night, when you stayed with Boromir?” Celeborn said without preamble.  
  
“Yes.” Théodred wondered if he should elaborate, but Celeborn nodded and continued,  
  
“He was disturbed and sought you out when you wandered...”  
  
‘…how does he know my dreams?’  
  
“…but now, he wanders himself.”  
  
Théodred took a deep breath to calm himself, but words rapidly tumbled out in a flood of questions. “My Lord – you talk in riddles. Why can you not help him? It was you who began this!”  
  
Celeborn regarded him coolly.  
  
“I know the Steward’s Son very well now, and he knows something of us. In his determination to save you, he thought he also could do what I did – cast his fea to find you. That he did so is proof your link is strong – and how desperate he was not to lose you…”  
  
Foreboding grew in Théodred. He may not have understood all of this, but the intensity of the two elven lords as they tried to explain… something was not well…  
  
“…but it was a rash act born of both bravery and pride and now, he wanders…”  
  
“Where? Why does he not wake? What did you do to him?” Théodred’s questions became a growing torrent of angry frustration ‘…what weren’t they telling him?!’  
  
“What is wrong with him – you must know!” he said, raising his voice.  
  
Lord Celeborn sat back and waited while the Rohir bit his lip, schooled his face, and tried to control his fear and anger.  
  
“We are not in a position to help him properly here...” Celeborn said smoothly.  
  
“This is folly…!!” Théodred burst out, thumping the table; Celeborn ignored his fury.  
  
“I need the skills of my Lady also…”  
  
“The Witch of Dwimordene…!”  
  
Haldir had a hand to his knife, half-rising, before Celeborn stayed his arm.  
  
“You would do well not to hurl insults in the presence of Celeborn of Lothlorien when speaking of the Lady Galadriel, Horselord!” Haldir was enraged at the impropriety.  
  
Théodred looked down at the table, colouring rapidly, his fits clenched on his knees. “Your pardon, my Lord,” he managed to say into the utter silence between them feeling foolish and humbled. If someone had made such a remark to his father about his mother in the Golden Hall… Théoden would have struck him down on the spot. Yet Théo's shame and remorse at his words did little to take away his seething wrath, or his despair of ever seeing Boromir again, whole and well.  
  
“Prince Théodred is naturally anxious and disconcerted by events, I’m sure he meant no real harm,” Celeborn murmured.  
  
Haldir sat back down at his lord’s side; his face blank, carefully masking his emotions.  
  
Celeborn continued. “I propose to return to Lothlorien with Lord Boromir…”  
  
Théodred’s head came up, but he resisted the urge to jump up and deny the proposal. Just then, Lindir erupted through the banners, even making the final one ring in his agitation. He strode to Haldir’s side and whispered to him. Haldir looked startled; something, Théo decided, that was really _not_ a good sign, not if it surprised the notoriously self-possessed elf.  
  
Haldir turned to the two of them. “My Lord – we have visitors.”  
  
For the briefest instant, the eyes of both elves flickered into metallic-silver, in sign of the communication between them. Then Celeborn rose and strode out of the screening banners, Haldir and Lindir with him. Théodred was left to blunder after them – though it did cross his mind perhaps he aught to seek a weapon out first. The mood he was in… he would have been more than happy to kill something – if it wasn’t for these… ridiculous… bloody… curtains!  
  
When he finally emerged with much tinkling of bells, he saw a strange and wondrous sight in the glade – enough to dissipate his wrath with astonishment. A tree, no - two trees, that surely hadn’t been there before…waving their branches on a near windless day. Théo blinked, once, twice – the trees had eyes! And as he watched, Lord Celeborn and the trees bowed to each other in formal greeting.  
  
The man was suddenly aware that his mouth was hanging open; he snapped his jaw shut with an effort. When he was a child, his father had teased him with tales of a tree he had once glimpsed walking at the edge of Fangorn. Théo had never really believed him, though he assured his young cousins Éomer and Éowyn it was true, mainly when he didn't want to be followed into the woods.  
  
The trees walked towards the edge of the glade with Lord Celeborn and Haldir, evidently deep in conversation. The rest of the company watched with awe, and Théo suddenly wished Boromir could see this, for he’d never believe him otherwise.  
  
And they wanted to take Boromir away with them! Not sure what he was going to do about that, Théodred turned back to the trees and parted the first banner which set the bells to jangling, attracting the attention of a nearby elf. Théo indicated he was tired and in pain and wanted to return to the upper levels; the elf held the wind-curtains aside for Théodred to pass among them. At the foot of the tree he’d been lodged in, Théo realised his dilemma, how was he going to get back up again?  
  
A sentry on the first flet, high above his head, saw him and let down a rope-ladder next to him. Théodred struggled doggedly, the ladder swaying and rolling beneath him as he climbed clumsily upwards. The healing wounds on his leg pulled and stretched painfully; and when he reached the top he virtually collapsed onto the wooden flet. Disconcerted to find the man sitting on the floor, breathing hard and white as his shirt, the sentry helped him to his feet and guided him to the stairs, his arm around Théo’s waist.  
  
In the end, he half-carried him up the two remaining stairways to the place where Boromir still slept. Two healers bustled in to take over; they lowered him onto the bed, now pulled away from Boromir’s cot and made him lay back on the pillows; his limbs seemed to be made of lead. Theodred found himself scolded in Sindarin, much as he’d frequently been scolded by his old nurse at Meduseld, at least, their tone held the same note of exasperation in the voice. Suddenly, his reserves of energy seemed to become completely depleted. He shook his head as the urge to sleep came over him, but to no real avail. He felt weak as a kitten and barely protested when he had his boots taken off his feet. A goblet of water was held to his lips and though grateful to quench his thirst – he again suspected ‘…it must be something in the water’ as his eye-lids drooped and closed.  
  
He woke under a blanket; they’d taken off his tunic, but left his other clothing, and just covered him loosely. No one was with them; he looked across at Boromir, still neatly arranged with painful tidiness. He staggered out of the bed and pushed it up against Boromir’s, then lay down again on his side. Quietly, he began to talk to him about the talking tree Boromir had missed, the things he’d spoken about with Haldir, Lindir, and the others, what the sling had felt like as he rushed towards the ground. He ran his fingers over Boromir’s hair, mussing it, curling it around his fingers as he spoke. Wanting the comfort of bodily contact, he cuddled up closer to the sleeping man, put his arm across him, and spoke quietly to him about everything he had seen, thought, felt, done, since Boromir had collapsed in the boat.  
  
Théo thought that he might have dozed for a while in between speaking, but he wasn’t really sure. A healer returned with a jug of well-watered wine. He handed Théodred a goblet, then propped Boromir up to drink a few drops of the watered wine. When he had left them, Théo held Boromir’s hand and kept talking, stroking the man’s fingers and palm, raising it now and again to his lips. The healer came back later with a bowl of stew and bread for Théodred’s evening meal. He swung his legs out of bed and sat up to eat it, beginning to find that his throat ached from talking so much. Afterwards he stood up and walked around to force his muscles to work, before he went back to Boromir and lay beside him. The healer collected the empty bowl, seeing Théo dozing again; he checked Boromir, and left a shielded lantern behind on the floor beside them.  
  
Théo opened his eyes; he realise how dark it had gotten. It felt strange here, unreal – he felt cut off from the outside world; it seemed there was only he and Boromir and the noise of rustling leaves. He gathered Boromir into his arms the best he could, trying to rearrange him so that he looked as if he slept naturally, and then lay back to listen to the night sounds. There were some very far off sounds, that he couldn’t make out – howling wolves maybe? Or was it just the creaking of old branches – Fangorn always seemed to make noises like no other wood did; now he could just about hear a very low, droning, booming noise, so low it made his ears itch. They would have to leave here very soon, he thought, he had no idea how, but he was sure something would make itself known…  
  
In his dreams, he and Boromir cantered across the plains of Rohan before they stopped under leafy green trees by a lively stream. There they dismounted and sat down on the rough grass in the shade under the trees and talked… He couldn’t say what about, but he saw Boromir look slightly puzzled as if he strained to hear. Boromir’s gaze wandered, so Théo tried to speak more loudly, but the rustle of the many leaves drowned him out, and though he knew he spoke, even he couldn’t hear himself speaking. Then he took Boromir’s hand in his and clasped it tightly, looking hard into his disengaged eyes, willing him to be able to read his lips – and just as he thought Boromir began to actually see and understand what he was trying to say to him… Théo woke up.


	14. Strange awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The light was thin and pale through the surrounding curtains; it was morning. Boromir had his eyes open; he was looking at Théodred, but the rohir’s initial delight soured when he saw that Boromir looked at him with the same incomprehension as in his dream. Théo’s heart turned icy with dread. He propped himself on one elbow to try to converse with him.  
  
“Boromir…? Boromir, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”  
  
The man looked past Théodred, and said, “Mae govannen.”  
  
Théo stared. ‘…Boromir doesn’t speak Sindarin.’ He rolled over to see who he spoke to; Lord Celeborn had entered the room.  
  
“Gil sila erin lû e-govaded vin,” the Elf said with a formal nod. He walked over to the bedside, “Man eneth lin?”  
  
Boromir bowed his head in greeting, before looking puzzled, as if he searched for a phrase but could not find it.  
  
“Anirach i dulu nin?” asked Celeborn.  
  
Boromir frowned, perplexed; he stared at Celeborn for several moment then nodded.  
  
“What is it? What’s the matter?” Théodred was afraid to hear the answer.  
  
“I asked him what his name is, and then I asked him if he wants my help – it seems he does not remember who he is.  
  
“Is this some sort of trick? Boromir doesn’t speak your language.”  
  
“It would appear he does now.”  
  
“Th-thirsty…”  
  
When Boromir said it, it sounded like an experiment for his tongue, almost as if the word were a surprise to him. Haldir had entered unnoticed behind Lord Celeborn; he bent to pick up the water jug from a tray and poured the remains into a goblet, handing it to Boromir  
  
Without thinking, the man said, “Le hannon,” as he took it eagerly and drained the cup.  
  
Théodred did not know what to think – ‘this was madness…’  
  
Celeborn raised his hand and interrupted anything the Rohir might be going to ask,  
  
“We have other news for you, Prince… The Ents, the tree-shepherds you saw brought us grave tidings…”  
  
And he told Théodred of the news the Ents had brought them – that Saruman was discovered to have long been a deceiver; he had unleashed an army of orcs against Rohan; that King Théoden had evacuated the city of Edoras and the surrounding settlements for Helm’s Deep. There they had been besieged, only to be saved on the brink of destruction by the arrival of the White Wizard and the Riders commanded by Éomer.  
  
Théodred was appalled - ‘…he should have been there! He should have been fighting at his father’s side! He should have… He should not be here!!’  
  
“I have to go there!” The Prince leapt out of his bed. “Where are my clothes? My armour?” he demanded.  
  
“They will be brought for you,” said Haldir, “But pause and think – where do you go first?”  
  
“To the Mark, to my people.”  
  
Lord Celeborn nodded, “And we, to ours, and Boromir must come with us.”  
  
Théodred felt as though a great weight was crushing him… they were right. He couldn’t manage a sick man; he would have difficulty enough himself – no horse, no men…  
  
“We will find you a horse, Prince, but first you must hear all we know. Sauron prepares to attack Gondor, for he knows that if he takes Minas Tirith, eventually, the rest of Middle-earth will be his. There will be nothing but Darkness in all of Arda. Gondor looks to its allies, and Rohan rides to their aid…”  
  
“Where? Where do they muster? I must return to my éored, my King needs me!”  
  
“The Riders are on their way south – they are calling all the men that can bear spears to meet at Harrowdale. In two days the Host will take the Great West Road through Anórien, to Minas Tirith.”  
  
“Dunharrow! – but we must be fifty leagues from Dunharrow. Even with a fast horse it will take me two days at least to get there – and they will not stay. Always they will be hours ahead of me!” Théodred paced the floor – ‘…this was disastrous! He should never have listened to the Elves in the first place… but if he had not… Boromir would be dead… Yes, dead… but what was he now?!’  
  
“And we are fifty leagues from Lorien – we also must return, and although that way is equally perilous, and we must take Boromir with us. You cannot hope to protect him, neither can you ride two to a horse, whereas we…”  
  
“I know, I know… it is impossible for me.” Théodred paused in his pacing. He turned, the Prince once again… “Boromir is my life, but the Mark is my country. I am Second Marshall of the Mark and if my Father-King goes to war – then my place is at his side!”  
  
Celeborn nodded solemnly, “We shall aid you as much as we can – and we will take care of him. He will have sanctuary with us for as long as our realm stands free from Sauron’s darkness. You have my promise.”  
  
Théodred bowed his head, ignoring the incongruity of binding oaths taken when he was still bare-legged in a night-shirt.  
  
“Your armour will be brought to you. We will give you a small escort. We can send you down the river at a speed that will match the fleetest horse – four Elves in a light craft can paddle day and night. It is ten leagues beyond the junction of the Snowbourne before the swift current falters, and from there, another 10 leagues to the West Road.”  
  
“But I’ll have no horse.”  
  
“Do not worry – I will call, and I will see that a worthy horse shall be waiting there to bear you.”  
  
The rohir was puzzled for a few moments before he understood the elf-lord’s offer.  
  
“A Mearas? You will have a Mearas wait for me?” Théodred’s eyes shone – ‘…to ride a Mearas!’  
  
Celeborn smiled at his enthusiasm, “He will allow you to ride him, but he will not be yours to keep, for they are their own masters.”  
  
A foot stamped politely outside the curtains before a healer with a tray of food entered.  
  
“You will both eat.” Celeborn made this a command. “Lindir shall bring your gear, and Haldir will arrange for your escort. All will be ready well before noon.”  
  
He made to leave, but Théo boldly touched his sleeve, “You will look after him?” he said quietly.  
  
Celeborn placed his hand over Théodred’s, clasped it once and nodded. The Elves left.  
  
“Am… I… a burden?”  
  
Théodred whirled around; he had forgotten Boromir was awake and heard all of this… He went to the bed immediately and clasped Boromir’s hand in his.  
  
“No. Never!” He said with fervour. “Never that.”  
  
Boromir’s eyes were fever-bright, but unfocused; he stared hard at Théo, seemingly struggling to make sense of things… “Do I know you?”  
  
Théo's head drooped in near despair, he did not know which was the worst way to lose his love… to death, or to… this.  
  
“I feel perhaps… I do know you.” Boromir said finally, “But I am tired and my memory… is clouded. His voice faded. Théodred fingers gripped the other man’s hand convulsively, as if he could hold onto him and pull him back by his strength alone. They sat in silence for a little before Boromir spoke again, “…you talked to me before, I think. I seem to remember your voice…”  
  
“Yes!” Théo said eagerly, “I spoke to you all day and last night”  
  
Boromir shook his head, unsure, “Did you? Yours was not the only voice – it was difficult to hear them all.”  
  
Théodred felt lost. He sat on Boromir’s bed and searched Boromir’s face with his eyes, “We…” he began, “…were – are – the greatest of friends. Our lives have been entwined for so long that I can not imagine my life without you - it would be like a light had gone out forever.”  
  
He paused to make sure Boromir was listening. The man was rapt in his attention, staring hard at Théodred, as if making a huge effort to pierce the veil inside his mind. Théo took Boromir’s hand and laid it between his two hands, swearing aloud a private oath of fealty as he did so.  
  
“We are friends, companions, comrades in arms, confidantes – and most of all, we are lovers…” Théo watched Boromir’s face, “We have been – we are – and we will be. Do not doubt me. I will wait for you to come back to me… never doubt that I will wait. And though we must part now, I will return for you. I will return!” Théodred said the last with such fierce conviction his voice shook.  
  
Slowly, Boromir freed his hand and took the other man’s hand between his two. He held it pressed firmly in his for a few seconds before he spoke. “I accept your promise.”  
  
They sat in silence, staring into each others faces, one looking for recognition, the other for something to recognise – both of them seeking to imprint a memory for themselves – in case… in case… but neither could face what ‘in case’ might mean.  
  
After a while Boromir sank back onto his pillow. He gave a great sigh and his eyes slipped closed; his hands released Théo’s, and he slept again. Théodred sat for a moment, then leant forward and kissed Boromir on the forehead, then on each cheek. He whispered very softly in his ear,  
  
“I will not say goodbye, my love; there will never be anything that final between us.”  
  
Then he rose and dressed in a fresh shirt and his borrowed leggings, pulled his boots on, and walked out without looking back.


	15. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 

He walked to the stair and met a healer; he told him he would like to go to Lord Haldir and he would eat below with the others.The elf escorted him to the harness, summoned a sentry to supervise his descent and let Prince Théodred to the ground.This time there were no whoops, just grim determination to have no thoughts but for the matter in hand – to return to his Riders, to ride to Minas Tirith – and to ignore the fact that the one he wished above all to see would not welcome him to the White City – perhaps, never again.

He looked for Haldir and was escorted to the table where he had eaten before.A golden-haired elf he had seen before introduced himself as Lórindol, and offered to fetch him something to eat before they left for the river.Lindir breezed in with the rest of the rohir's gear, all of which had been polished and oiled, he noted.Lindir and Lórindol joined him in eating platters of hot, cooked meat and chunks of bread.

"We will leave as soon as Gelmir joins us, he is making our packs up for travelling." said Lindir.

"I thought he was injured," Théo said around a spoonful of meat.

Lindir shrugged, "He can't run, but he can paddle.Better with us than chasing _yrch_ back to Lothlorien."

"There are orcs?"

Lindir's mouth was full, so Lórindol replied, "Some.The others will leave later today – when the Ents arrive to carry them."He wiped up meat-juices with his bread and licked his fingertips. 

"Ents?"Théo was startled enough to spit crumbs on the table.

Lindir's mouth was now free, he nodded, "For speed - it has been arranged they will carry as many of us as they can to the far edge of Fangorn."He reached for some bread to wipe his platter."I rode an Ent once before – the motion made me sick to the stomach…"

Gwindor joined them and stole some meat from Lindir's platter, he spoke and the others grinned.Haldir translated as he walked in just behind him. "He said – 'that's because you have a weak stomach' – which is funny because we all know Lindir loves to eat."

Gelmir limped in with another elf. Between them they carried five packs.Haldir nodded approvingly."Good, you are nearly ready."

"They are to come with me?"

"They volunteered to stay behind and escort you in the boat.They will make their way back here and the Ents will find them, and keep them safe in the forest until they can return to Lorien." said Haldir.

Théodred frowned, "I did not realise they were putting themselves in danger for me – I can take the boat alone…"

"They would be at risk wherever they were, for these are dangerous times– and you on your own would not be able to paddle with sufficient speed to catch the Rohirrim.Alone in the wild – you would perish."Haldir's bluntness nettled him slightly, though Théo could see the truth of it – too many wild men and orc-bands for a lone traveller, still…

"It is their choice to make," Haldir continued, "Come, if you have finished. Lord Celeborn would see you before you leave."

Théodred followed him out into the open and down towards the tumbling stream that fed the pool at the centre of the glade.Lord Celeborn sat on the smooth, dark grey rocks, the long robe he wore over his tunic and leggings shimmered faintly; his feet were bare, ankle deep in the sparkling water.He lent back, his face turned up to the sunlight, eyes closed; his loose silver hair catching the light and the soft breeze so it appeared almost liquid itself.It was only when they stood at his side that he opened his eyes.He gave a deep sigh, stood and stepped forward, his footsteps causing wavelets to splash across the swiftly slowing water with a bright, clear sound. Without speaking, he turned to face them, standing in front of Théodred at the liminal edge between land and water. The elf-lord took him firmly by the shoulders with both hands, though he seemed to look through Théodred rather than at him. 

"Close your eyes," murmured Haldir.

Théo was wary, but he closed his eyes as commanded.Celeborn placed his hands on Théodred's temples and lent to kiss him full on the mouth, lips slightly parted.Théodred's instinct was to pull away, but he was held immobile; then he tasted… something indefinable.It was power, and life, and his heart-lifted in a way previously unimaginable to him.As the elf-lord breathed into his mouth he tasted the scent of _athelas_ that Aragorn had crushed onto Boromir's wounds, but so much stronger and sweeter it made him giddy.Haldir supported him as he felt himself reel a little; he could feel the Marchwarden's strength pressed against his back and felt the aura of Celeborn's power sleet through his body like a warm, summer wind.For the first time in days he felt whole, and well… in fact… he felt like he could move mountains!It could have been for an age, or a few lengthy moments, time ceased to move - then the lips and the awe-inspiring presence were gone and he was released. Haldir caught him as he dropped, almost as if his feet had not been touching the ground.

 

When Théodred blinked his eyes open, Haldir was already escorting him away; he looked back over his shoulder. Lord Celeborn had turned away from them; still standing on the black, earthen shore, his barefeet lapped by the rippling water that tugged at the hem of his robe darkening the cloth - his eyes fixed northwards on some far distant point.

"Do you feel… well?" Haldir enquired as they walked.

Théodred nodded absently, too much aware of every breath of wind on his skin, every leaf's colour on the trees, each tiny sound, the subtle smell of crushed grass beneath his boots…He could smell the deep, enticing richness of sandalwood and heady white flowers… he turned to Haldir, who had dropped his guiding arm from the man's elbow, 

"I've never felt better!"

Haldir gave a slight smile and nodded, "Then you are ready to leave."

They rejoined the Elves, who were packed and waiting ready for them, and this time, Théodred negotiated the wind-curtains without a sound.He gathered his gear and put on his leathers, vambrace and collar, the breast-plate and back he would don later.The other Elves went ahead, threading their way out between the banners; before he followed, Théo gripped Haldir's hand and forearm, a warrior's grip.He spoke with quiet intensity,

"I thank you and your lord for what you have done for us – I know I may not have shown it, and for that I am truly sorry…"

Haldir pressed his hand over Théo's grip, shook his head with a smile that said, '… _it is forgotten'_.

"…I only ask that you look after him for me.And if I am permitted to come again – I will return for him.I promised him that."

Haldir gripped his arm, "I do not doubt you, Prince.You and he will meet again."

Théodred nodded, clapped Haldir on the shoulder in fellowship; then turned and left him standing in the centre of the screening banners.As Théodred threaded his way through them, Haldir heard not a single bell ring out.

 


	16. Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 

 

Haldir was still standing there lost in thought when a sentry behind him coughed quietly to announce his presence. He turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Marchwarden, the Ents are here…"

In the glade outside there seemed to be a new knoll of trees just inside the perimeter of the clearing.  Three were tall creatures, tree-like, save they had long upper limbs with knobbly, thin-fingered hands and their trunks were bifurcated, allowing them to walk with great, long strides.The three others were _huorns_ , equally tall, but many, many branched, their leaves were fuller and thicker and their lower limbs were many and root-like.They did not stride but flowed across the ground with the motion of a centipede, the thick roots each moving in turn; though the greatest difference was the great, well-deep eyes of the Ents, windows to _fea_ as old as Arda.All of them bore pale, freshly healing scars in their bark, as if they had been hewn at with axe or blade.

 

 

 

The walking wounded were dressed for travel and carried packs. The few more severely injured elves were wrapped in cloaks and drugged near senseless to keep pain at bay; they were strapped to litters.In an orderly fashion the camp was dispersed, the wind-curtains and banners taken down, beds, tables and benches taken apart and stored on the flets; when their supporting corner-columns were removed the slightly domed wooden roofs that sheltered the platforms formed 'covers' for the camp furniture, neatly formed into stacks on the floor below.Linen, bedding and other goods went into sealed compartments built into the floors.It took some time to stow everything and lower the roofs by ropes and pulleys, but all knew well the routine of breaking this semi-permanent camp and worked with practised efficiency.

Rations were distributed for the journey, water-flasks filled at the spring; finally they began to climb up into the _huorns_ who were to carry them, or were lifted and placed among their branches by the Ents. The Ents had chosen the most amenable of the wild tree creatures who had agreed to aid the Elves, and would carry them to the far edge of Fangorn so that they might reach Lorien more swiftly.The Elves had belts and ropes and tied the injured into place, Boromir among them, though he sat with Lord Celeborn and Haldir in the branches of one of the Ents.The man moved like a sleep-walker, aware and responsive to suggestions, but frequently slipping back into a drowsy half-sleep.

 

Altogether, some sixty or so Elves left on their strange transport, heading north. They passed by the five newly dug graves at the edge of the glade, low mounds not yet grown over with turf.All bent their heads in reverence, and some were moved to fresh sorrow for lovers and brothers-in-arms who would not be seen again unless they too journeyed to the Halls of Mandos.A voice quietly lifted in a lament for passing and many joined the melancholy melody.  

 

The Ents guided the _huorns_ as they moved into the depths of Fangorn, deeper than even the Elves would have willingly gone without guides such as these.Things of the Great Darkness still sheltered in the deep, sun-less glades and dingles of the forest, fearsome creatures between the Dark and the Light; not always evil, but simply wild and governed by nothing but their own needs.They would not pause on their journey, neither would the elves disembark for any reason save the direst necessity, the Ents had made that quite clear to Lord Celeborn when they had agreed to his suggestion.

 

 

They had no control over the wild things, nor did they want it.As long as the creatures did no harm to the trees, and built no fires; if they lived on the few animals that found there way into Fangorn, or ate the birds, then they were not the Ents concern.But neither could they guarantee that 'elf' would not be on the Wild Things menu if one was to stray into their path.The creatures would shy away from the Ents, who in the past had proved that they brooked no interference in the business of looking after the trees. The dark things did not live in complete harmony with the tree-shepherds, but they co-existed in a respectful truce one with the other. 

 

With vast strides and the smooth movement of many sturdy roots, the convoy travelled rapidly, covering the ground far more quickly than the elves could ever have done on foot, and they travelled by a more direct route.Soon, the forest darkened into dense, trackless swathes of trees, some leaned aside to allow their passage, some stretched out and sought to snag at the Elves sitting among the branches and dislodge them.The Ents boomed and sang slow songs with many words as lengthy as entire sagas, and the errant trees sulkily withdrew and quietened.Day turned to twilight and then night, but under the thick canopy it seemed merely that the gloom had become darker still.

 

Many Elves cast their hoods over their heads and retreated into reverie, wrapping themselves in their cloaks, drawing close to each other when they could, huddling down into the crooks of the branches.The creeping sense that they were unwelcome and barely tolerated reached them all, and made the injured whimper in their drugged sleep.The healers soothed them, but all felt the chill of the venomous hatred that seeped out of dark hollows and stony outcrops at their passing.Even the weather conspired against them as heavy clouds covered the stars, so even that comfort was lacking.

Boromir moaned softly and twisted in disturbed dreams, acutely sensitive to the animosity around him.Celeborn and Haldir took turns to hold him fast to where he was tethered by leather belts to the Ent's broadly branched shoulder, and their presence and warm arms about him quieted his nightmares.In truth, even they were not completely conversant with many of these places, there were paths here even Lord Celeborn had never travelled.The night wore on, and they slid through it on a meandering course, as great ships plough a zig-zag path before the wind as the cross over the ocean, moving always north but avoiding ways that were impassable and finding the route of least resistance.The deep, bone-shivering 'hoooom' of the Ents became the familiar counterpoint to the background noise of eerie rustling, squeals, snarls and hisses of the forest floor.

They crossed the River Limlight where it entered the forest from its mountain home just before dawn, at this time still more a rushing torrent of ice and snow-melt than river.The Ents continued to cross the plain, telling Lord Celeborn they would take the Elves along the foot of the mountains until the Sun rose, but no light came from the east.Good to their word the Ents strode across the plain, but after a few leagues the _huorns_ moved more slowly, fearful of the open space, and still there was no light, only sinister clouds of enveloping darkness above distant Mordor.Lord Celeborn called the convoy to a halt.

"You have done us a great service to carry us so far and so swiftly.We are now no more than ten leagues from Lothlorien.But the Darkness has begun, and we would not hazard you further, friends."

 

Dreamleaf, the Ent who carried them, considered this slowly, then reached up to help them descend.

"It is a great-vast-blackness that comes upon us all.We will retire into the depths of our forest, as we have always done - for these wars are not of our making.All of the Ents wish you, the Elder Children, well.We still remember how valiantly you fought the wicked might of the other Dark One.We hope you may find light and strength to defy the evil, and that peace may come to you again.We will be here – and you may shelter with us when you may."

This was the gist of the long, slow speech – which was joined by many low 'hooooms' and booms of agreement by the other two Ents; during which time the Elves disembarked from their transport, grateful to be so near to Lorien.They could not travel as swiftly as they usually did because of the injured, but they would soon be home.They quickly assembled themselves into groups of litter-bearers and the walking-wounded, with pickets of sentries surrounding them; the aim being to travel in groups in a line rather than a long column, so they could stay in sight of each other the more easily to lend assistance in case of attack.Ahead of them, dim gold in the distance, were their beloved woods of Lothlorien; behind, the deep and sinister browns and greens of Fangorn.

 

 

 

 

But to the east where the sky should have been pale blues and brightness was nothing except the cloudy, slag-grey murk of belching fumes and smoke above Mordor, through which savage lightening flashed, jagged blades in the dark.The Elves shuddered and turned their eyes north to their home, and as one set off across the dividing plain at a loping run – and Boromir, Captain of Gondor – lord of the Stone-land, ran heedless amongst them.

 

 

 

 


	17. Distraction and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 

 

Théodred emerged from the wind-curtains with dogged determination in every step; the decision was made, for good or ill.If the Riders of the Mark rode to war against Mordor – then his place was amongst them.He put from his mind his doubts and worries, he was a warrior and all his thoughts must bend to that end now… but he could not help the nagging fears for Boromir at the back of his mind _'…what if he never came back to his body?What if his love had left him_ _forever_ _…?_ '

'Enough!'He shook himself free of the corrosive doubts and misgivings – to think thus would like as not ensure his own death, when he failed to react to an orc's axe or a Southron spear – the task at hand was war.It was not a task to be taken lightly.He strode away from the camp to where the four Elves waited for him on the path to the south, scarcely registering that the bells had not rung behind him.

They had his pack prepared for him.He did not speak as he accepted it, merely nodded; he was sure they would have packed all that was necessary.In silence they turned from the glade and started down the narrow path to the river.With resolute determination Théodred tried hard to think of nothing but his surroundings, his footfalls and the trees and bushes on either side of him, and indeed, he did seem to see them more clearly than he ever had before.They passed humped banks of greenery, patterned liberally with six-petalled flowers that reminded him of Simbelmynë, save these were golden rather than white.

"What are these flowers called?" Théo asked.

"Elanor," replied Lindir.

They walked on, through banks of soft, fern-fronded plants, pungent when stepped upon.'Sweet Cicely' he remembered;the house-keepers cut it and mixed it with the straw laid outside the doors to catch the mud from careless tramping boots.Further back under the bushes where the great, leathery leaves of the plant the people called 'Elfshield', each shiny green surface curved out broadly on either side of the upright stem before swooping to a long point.Above him, long thin catkins scattered their dust on the breeze.

"Old Man's Willies!" he said aloud.

Lórindol turned inquiringly with a half-smile.

"Your pardon," said Théodred, "I was just remembering old names we had as children for some of these plants…"

Lindir, walking at Théo's side nodded, "I understand the words, but not why."

"Because they always hang down loosely and scatter yellow rain."

Théo frowned at himself for being too free; such a stupid, school-boy name would probably not be taken well by these fey creatures.Lindir, he could hear, was obviously explaining the reference and translating the vulgar nick-name.Théo was relieved to see the others grin.Gelmir pointed out a plant in the undergrowth half-hidden by clustering leaves.The centre was a single short, thick, green spike standing stiffly upright, topped with a vivid ball of tightly packed, bright red berries – the others chuckled at his remark.

Lindir turned to the man "You are not the only ones - he was reminding us of the common name for that plant – I think you would say it as 'Adan's Cock'.

Théodred looked again, yes… he smiled '… _it did have an unmistakably phallic look about it'_ – which gave him something to ponder _'…if they called the short, thick stem 'man-cock'… what did… theirs look like?'_ He could feel himself colour – what an idiotic thing to think of at a time like this!Almost in answer, Lórindol pointed out some clumps of slender, silvery green stems that wafted, stiff but graceful, in the slight breeze, each topped with a slightly pointed, pale golden ball of many flowers.

"They call those 'Maiden's Delight' he said with a wink – and Théo realised his unspoken question had been answered. 

 

 

He chuckled to himself as he walked and thought _'…I must tell Boromir that…_ '   And with that his face fell _'…Boromir… would he ever get back the one he loved?'_

 

Lindir looked at him with some concern, but said nothing.Instead he dropped his pace to walk nearer to Théodred, keeping to the man's stride; eventually he began to point out various trees and plants telling Théo the names he knew and asking what Men called them.Theo welcomed the distraction; he knew the Elf was trying to push his thoughts elsewhere and he was grateful not to be allowed to brood on Boromir's fate… or his own.

He did not yet know if he would be able to catch up with the Riders _'…would he be stranded in the wilds on his own?Would he even find a Mark to get back to?And what of his father?His cousins, Éomer and Éowyn?How did they fare – had that weasel Wormtongue poisoned their thoughts as well?'_

He shook his head to free himself of this gloomy introspection – if you go into a fight believing you will lose, then surely you _will_ lose!He had been taught that as a very small boy – if you believe you can do it – then you stand a much better chance of achieving what you desire.And at present his desire… his desire… was torn between his duty to his father and the Mark… and his desire to help his dearest friend, lover, andcompanion of his heartBoromir was all of these to him – having come so close to losing him, then nearly losing himself…He shuddered at the still-strong memory of how enticing the merriment inside that far-off Hall had seemed.He would open the door one day… but not yet, no - not for a long while yet!His chin came up at the thought _'…No!Not yet at all!_ '

Lindir smiled at him encouragingly with a nod … and it began to occur to Théodred that the elf seemed rather more in tune with him than was comfortable.

"Do you read my thoughts?!" He blurted this out before he considered the affront his accusation might give to a subtle people.

Lindir shook his head, "No… butyou wear your feelings so clearly...he shrugged, "…they are easy enough to read."

Théo frowned; he did not care to be so transparent, it was unsettling…

"…we try not to, but…" the Elf was obviously trying to choose his words with care, "…we sympathise with your pain.If any of us had a comrade we loved - lost and seemingly on the path to Mandos' Halls – we too would wear our grief openly…"

Théo turned his words over in his mind before replying; eventually he just nodded, "Thenwe are alike after all," he said.

They walked on in companionable silence until they reached the river, wherea small, lithe craft awaited them, sleek and grey; it rested ready on the shingle.The larger boats had already been concealed further up the bank, wrapped under lengths of coarse fabric and turned upside down with branches stacked over them.The Elves lost no time in stowing their packs and carrying the craft down to the water.Gelmir held the prow while Théo pushed his gear under the middle bench and climbed in; then they pushed the boat into the river and vaulted into their places.Immediately they paddled out to catch the fastest current and they were away down the river, down to a battle and an unknown fate.Théodred was a little ashamed to admit to himself, buthe was looking forward to it.

 


	18. Sweet Songs of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 

The river slipped away from the dark forest behind them through high banks lined with straggling trees and bushes.They kept to the middle of the swift current both for speed and for safety from any that might hide on the banks, but they saw no one that first day.Paddling with the current they made good time, only stopping briefly a couple of times to change sides and stretch cramped legs.It was late afternoon when they approached the place where their five comrades had been killed,rather than camp there they had already decided to keep going into the night. The moon was only just past full and should give them enough light to travel by.

 

As the shingle bay came in sight, Lindir began to sing a slow melody full of quiet emotion, the others joined in one by one as they halted their paddling to drift by the beach letting the river take them and their song.Théodred sat in silence.He did not know the words but thought he recognised the sentiment behind them – this was a song for fallen comrades if ever he heard one. Abruptly, the wind changed and blew the stink of the rotting orc carcasses out to them.They choked and held their hands over their faces to divert the stench, then quickly paddled on,steering towards the opposite bank until they were clear of the noxious smell.

A short while later they could resume their place mid-river. 

"Tell me about the song," said Théodred,

"That…?It was the Comrade's Song, Lindir wrote it," replied Lórindol.

"Really?"Théo turned to the elf, "Can you translate it for me?"

Lindir didn't miss a stroke of his paddling, he nodded, "Let me just think how the words should lie," he said.

After another mile or two, Lindir began to hum the tune, muttering the song under his breath as he sought to turn the Sindarin phrases into Westron.

Eventually he nodded in satisfaction, "I have some of it," he said.

Théodred was eager to hear it; he was a good singer whose voice was a pleasing tenor and he was noted for the many old ballads and songs he could perform from memory.A particularly desirable skill among a people who wrote little down above accounts; their histories and stories were kept by bards and a pleasant singing voice was deemed a gift to be cherished.Around the camp-fires it was normal to hear songs and sagas performed by those who could, and those who could do it well were soundly appreciated.Théodred's talent was for the sentimental ballads that men only sang when alone around camp-fires, or in their cups in the dark of the night; the sort that would bring a tear to the most hardened eye. Iftruth be told, many warriors when in their own company love nothing better than a sad song – or a dirty one.Théodred knew both.

Lindir began the first verse:

 

_ You rise like the wind on the water, _

_ And you fall gently back to the sea. _

_ Now I want to know how to keep you, _

_ Return to me, return to me. _ __

_ I am here calling the wind, _

_ I am here calling your name, _

_ I am here calling you back, _

_ Return to me, return to me. _

Théo listened with rapt attention, recognizing it instantly as the heartfelt lament from one love to another now departed.This was like the songs his Riders knew, not a 'high' formal song, but one full of yearning, something one could sing after an evening's drinking when the rowdy songs had died away – or when one was completely alone and contemplating only memories.He liked it – it made these sometimes aloof and distant elves seem more 'human', to realise that they too sang sad songs in the dark night of the soul – and such a beautiful song to absent friends and lovers. 

"Will you teach me?" He said eagerly.

Lindir laughed, "But of course, Rohir;if such songs please you I'd be delighted"

Théo felt a little overawed again at seeming foolishly eager, he dipped his head to hide his blushes.

 

"No, do not be ashamed of loving beauty and cherishing friends," said Lindir.

 

Théo shook his head. They could read him so easily! Gelmir noted his discomfort and spoke as Lindir translated. 

 

"He says – when you have our years, you'll be able to read a man as well!"

 

The elves laughed easily among themselves – which set Théo to wondering just how old his companions actually were…

 

"And if I teach you… then you must sing for us later,"

 

Théodred nodded, "Though, I'm afraid you might find our songs somewhat rough and homespun…"

 

Lórindol clapped him on the back, "Let us judge that when we've heard them, Rohir, but we all love a song well sung, no matter how simple – now the melody…"

 

 

The sun sank and the elves paddled on, steering through rocks and fallen trees, their voices quietly raised in song, to which a fifth now joined, growing more confident  as the song became familiar.

It was late when the deemed it as far as they could go without sustenance.Théo had nodded in sleep for sometime, but the cramped conditions of the boat made deep sleep impossible.Gwindor spotted a high bank above the river where a jumble of rocks made a tiny sheltered cove.They woke him as they paddled towards the shore, and he stretched tired limbs, grateful at the prospect of walking a little.

Théo helped them haul the boat out of the water.Gelmir's leg was stiff from sitting and Gwindor's shoulder ached painfully, evident in that he held his injured arm cradled in the crook of the other.' _I should make them let me take my turn'_ thought Théodred.He insisted on helping to carry the packs and set up camp.It would be meagre but they decided since they'd seen no signs of life that they could risk a small fire.Gelmir and Lindir set about building a small cairn from the loose rocks at the very back, below the steep bank.The others gathered drift wood from around the cove.There was plenty from the previous winter, now good and dry at its heart, though they made sure to break any sodden bark away before they fed the wood to the small fire.At least this little shelter meant they could make a hot drink and warm themselves ; it was still early enough in the year for the night to be chill after sundown.

They'd already set water to boil as Gwindor unwrapped a loaf saved from breakfast, sliced it and spiked it on sticks to warm over the flames.Lórindol produced a round cheese and placed it on a hot stone at the edge of the fire, from another pack came dried fruit, and tea to tip into the water-kettle.Théodred suddenly realised how hungry he was; they'd passed some bread and cold meat earlier, but the smell of warming bread and cheese made his mouth water.They soon finished eating and where savouring the hot tea with pleasure.

"Now we should hear your song, Théodred" said Lindir, leaning lazily back against Lórindol's shoulder.

Gwindor nodded, but carried on to say something the others agreed with.

 

"He says we should get some bedding first and then you can sing us to sleep," Lórindol said as he pushed Lindir away to allow him to stand."No, stay here, we'll be back soon."

 

He and Lindir walked to the lowest point and climbed the bank, disappearing into the darkness.Gwindir fed the fire a little more and searched his pack for a vial of oil he set to warm.The elf stripped off his tunic and shirt and flexed his shoulder, the wound had healed remarkably quickly, but it was evidently still tender.Gelmir examined it carefully, probing with long sensitive fingers, eliciting small gasps of mingled pain and pleasure as he kneaded the tense muscles of Gwindor's shoulders and neck.Gelmir picked up the warmed oil and poured a small amount into his hand; he rubbed it over the strained muscles and Gwindor almost purred with pleasure.

Théo heard his name called from above.He looked up to see Lindir with a bundle of dry brush.

 

 

"Catch this, and I'll fetch more.Lórindol is behind me."

 

Dutifully, Théo caught the bundles of brush and last year's bracken they dropped.He cleared an area around the fire free of stones and piled the brush there.Shortly the other two clambered back down.They piled the rough bedding into two heaps and spread a blanket over each of them.At first, Théo wondered were he was to sleep then saw that his pack had been placed with those of Lindir and Lórindol.Lindir beckoned him to sit and join them as they spread their cloaks comfortably around each other.

Meanwhile, Gwindor had shrugged back into his shirt, and was helping Gelmir remove his leggings.Théo couldn't help but glance at the fine muscular thighs displayed in the firelight.He tried hard not to stare but as Gelmir lay full length opposite him and Gwindir took his turn in massaging warmed oil into the exposed thigh… the sight made Théo swallow.Especially when he realised that Gwindir's hand strayed high above Gelmir's inner thigh to touch and cup what was hidden from Théo's view, but not his imagination.

 

"Take your leggings off and I'll rub your leg if you like," said Lindir lazily.

Lórindol leant back against the piled packs at his side, smiling reassuringly.

"The oil will help the stiffness."

 

A chuckle and soft remark from Gwindor didn't have to be translated as to just how much and which 'stiffness'. He lay at Gelmir's side and they'd thrown their cloaks completely over them, only the slight movement of his sliding hand indicated what might be going on underneath.

 

"Don't think we would coerce you, Rohir," said Lórindol. "We know where your heart is."

 

Lindir picked up the oil. "It will make your muscles feel easier."

Théo eyed it cautiously, but after a moment decided he was only being prudish.He was sure they had no designs on his body – their own being beautiful and obviously available to one another.He quickly stripped off his borrowed leggings and sat down again, but Lindir urged him to sit between himself and Lórindol with his damaged side towards the firelight.Lindir knelt to one side and pursued his lips at the damage; the thigh was healing but the flesh was still swollen enough to make the skin shiny in the flickering light.He poured some oils into his palms rubbed them together and then ran his hands up the full length of Théo's thigh from knee to hip and back.Théo hissed with shock.

"Did I hurt you?"There was genuine concern in Lindir's voice.

Théo shook his head, not quite trusting himself to speak – the sensation was incredible!Whether it was the oil, the unfamiliar hands, or his new found sensitivity… that touch had him trembling.Lindir began to gently and thoroughly knead the muscles, beginning at the knee and slowly working his way upwards, all the while keeping his head down concentrating on his task.Théo was grateful for that; he certainly couldn't have looked him in the eye at the moment.A whimper escaped his lips and he shifted a little, dragging his cloak into his lap to hide the burgeoning swelling there. He felt the warmth of Lórindol at his back, placing a leg either side of him.

"Lean back against me, and let him attend to you," he whispered softly in the Rohir's ear.

Théodred felt that he shouldn't, but he'd only had his own hand for release for weeks and the touch of the elf on his thigh and the warmth of the other at his back - and did he feel a certain hardness to Lórindol that hadn't been earlier?Lórindol's arms circled his chest lightly and Théo gave up and relaxed into them, his head leaning back to rest against the elf's shoulder.Lindir worked tellingly on his inner thigh and Théo shuddered, springing to fully erect beneath the concealing cloak.Lórindol spoke softly in Sindarin and Lindir answered with a chuckle before he translated for Théo's benefit.

"He said, he's often wondered howmuch that plant resembled the real thing – may I show him?"

Théo shivered and groaned as Lindir's hands slid under to cup his balls; he nodded once and arched back against Lórindol's chest.Lindir reached to Théo's waist and undid his small-clothes and slid them down, then lifted the cloak aside to reveal Théo standing high and proud, a thick, veined stem capped with a dark rosy hood bearing a white dew-pearl at its tip.The sudden coolness made Théo jerk his hips,aching suddenly to be touched, but not daring to ask.

"Most like the woodland stem – and what would it taste like?"Lindir leant forward to brush the hair from the Rohir's face, the other hand again cupping his hardening balls.

"May I?" Lindir whispered.

Again, Théodred could only nod, eyes tightly closed, though he wanted to yell 'Yes! Yes! Do it now!'He felt himself shifted as Lórindol leaned him further back and Lindir stripped his clothes from his ankles and pushed a pack under his backside to raise him up.Lindir knelt between his legs and took one knee and put it over his shoulder, sliding his hands under Théo's buttocks to lift and control him.

Théo felt a chill as Lindir blew across his rampant groin.Eyes screwed shut, he tried hard to stifle a huge groan and failed; his hips jerked towards the teasing mouth… and then… and then… the tip of a warm tongue licked at that pearl, warm lips circled the rosy cap…

 

"Bite this," whispered Lórindol, putting a piece of wood wadded in cloth to Théodred's mouth.

He bit down on it hard as the much anticipated lips descended; Lórindol kissed his neck and ear and held him tight as Lindir made the most of enjoying this unfamiliar stem, teasing and licking his way up and down before taking it deep into his clever mouth.Théo writhed and thrust - anything to get more of that glorious tongue around him, his ecstatic moans muffled by the cloth.He came in an intoxicating gout of release, his back arched like a great bow, thrusting himself as far as the elf would allow into that wonderful mouth.As he did he felt the wood splinter, and for a second, thought he'd broken his teeth.He collapsed panting, his bones liquid, his senses spinning around the moon. He felt Lindir release his leg and Lórindol shift behind him, leaning him forwards so that the two elves changed places. 

 

 

 

 

"And would you allow me to show you why those flowers of the forest are called 'Maid's Delight'?

Théo's chest heaved; he had felt the growing hardness between Lórindol'slegs as he leant against him. _'Why not?_ 'Panting still, Théo nodded as he was bodily shifted and his knees bent.He felt the slight chill of the oil slick down as it was poured between his cheeks, then a pressure as a finger prepared him, then two, then an unfamiliar pressure breached him.He hissed, and the pressure halted, though hands gripped his hips hard.Théo took a deep breath, and rocked steadily against the pressure.The shaft was narrower than a man's, it slid in more easily, and kept sliding… and kept sliding… until he almost wondered if therewas an end to it.Then he felt the heat of heavy balls slap gently into his.The shaft withdrew with exquisite slowness, then slapped back into him making him gasp.The third time Lórindol shifted slightly and slid in impossibly deeply, running long and hard against that deep-seated sweet-spot inside a man.Théo mewled like a kitten, panting hard, holding himself ready to receive another thrust as the elf drew slowly back.He was not disappointed.Lórindol found his rhythm and thrust again and again, his fingers gripping Théo's hips, pumping into him, until finally with a great quiver and a muffled cry he came,and moments later flopped down to lie for a second on Théo's chest.

"Beautiful man," he panted, "…and may my partner join us?"

Théodred was past coherence; he nodded and felt Lórindol withdraw and slump at his side.Immediately another oil-slicked pressure was pushed against, into… so deep into him, he gasped and struggled to his hands.  The voice behind shushed him and encouraged him to turn and lean foreward on his forearms and knees, backside high in the air.He felt air around him and knew Lindir teased himself, only pushing perhaps half-way into Théo's marvellously exposed riches.He felt Lindir's hand reach around to cup his slack cock, to stretch and pummel it as Lindir sawed back and forth behind him, each time a mere fraction deeper.Then he too brushed Théo's achingly sensitive spot and he was rewarded with a jerk of interest from the Rohir's cock.Lindir kept at that spot rubbing, rubbing, as he squeezed the hardening cock, before he withdrew till just the tip was inside him.Théo whimpered, he wanted more – he pushed back and Lindir backed away refusing him, but continuing to work at Théo's cock until it began to harden in his fist.

Théodred didn't know where he was or who he was; his whole being had become the exquisitely painful pleasure of the shaft rubbing inside him and the hand chafing him outside.He rocked into the hand and the shaft behind rocked into him, deeper, deeper, till he thought it must be at the back of his throat.But only deep primeval grunts came from his throat.He opened his eyes to seeGelmir and Gwindor watching them avidly from the other side of the fire, bright-eyed, theirhands moving on each other under the blanket.Lórindol arched uptowards Lindir capturing his mouth and lips, kissing him deeply,his hands tangled in the elf's dark hair.Lindir broke free and teeth-bared, eyes rolling up, he thrust hard and fast into Théo, his hand working furiously at Théo's cock.Lindir came with a great cry that Lórindol muffled with a kiss.Théo collapsed under him, hips jerking in spasms as he came again.

Then he lay there, utterly, utterly spent, gasping like a fish.It was minutes before he began to come back to his senses, and even then he felt his legs had suddenly been deprived of their bones.The two elves helped him stagger to his feet, stripped his shirt off him, and, naked like themselves,took him to the river.There they sat him down with them in the shallows;it was all he could do not to scream as the cold water found all those over-heated parts.Solicitously they washed him and each other, before half-dragging him back up to the fire.Théo was half unconscious, half asleep when they pushed him into a shirt, wrapped his cloak around him and laid him on the underbrush bed.The two elves lay either side of him.

He heard a soft chuckle and remark from Gelmir that made the others laugh."What…?" he mumbled.

Lindir whispered in his ear. "He says it was better than a song to be rocked to sleep to."

Théodred smiled drowsily, andheard no more until Lórindol shook him awake in the morning.

It took him a few moments to work out why he was so sore, and he ached… in places he'd never ached before!He lay still for several moments playing over in his mind the whole mad scenario… _'…what had he done?What had he been thinking!?_ 'With a groan he covered his head with his cloak.' _They'd used him – he was nothing but a plaything for them… how could he not have seen that!?'_

 

 

 

Lindir brought him over a flask of water, but the man was still hidden under his cloak.

"Come, sleepy one." He nudged the form curled under the covers. 

Théodred threw off the cloak with a scowl and sat up abruptly. He was going to scramble to his feet but realised he didn't know where his leggings were.He wrapped his cloak about him and sat there glowering.Lindir's smile faded, but he continued to offer the water.When Théo ignored it, he sat down beside him and took a gulp from the flask himself.Lindir stared across the river, Théodred glowered in silence; the other three elves were no where to be seen, though there was some splashing that indicated they were washing nearby.Eventually Lindir spoke.

"Guilt is a strange thing."

Théo ignored him and frowned at his fists clenched in his lap.

"Sometimes you do things that you want to do, that you enjoy, but because you feel you shouldn't have done them it makes you feel… unclean.".

Théo clasped his hands together, willing the elf to stop prattling and go away; then he could find his leggings in peace and get dressed; they could leave this place and he could forget the whole thing.But Lindir carried on, sipping water, staring across the river…

 

"Yet any shame is normally felt more within ourselves aone.In some situations, uncharacteristic actions are not 'wrong', they may not be right, but they are not a cause for shame…"

 

"You used me…" Théodred ground out the words between gritted teeth.

 

"No, we asked you and you agreed…"

 

"But I didn't know what I was agreeing to!" 

 

"Yes, you did.You were wound so tightly, it's a surprise you did not tear yourself apart.You wanted to stay, but your duty said 'go'.You wanted release, but you were too ashamed of being disloyal.You wanted one of us, but thought you could never have us…So, we made it easy for you – and it was a pleasure to do so, do not doubt that!But you wanted this, needed this, just as much as we did.

Now, the others will come back and eat.I am going to wash.I suggest you think hard, and then come to the river and wash the sleep away.Here…"

 

 

 

 

Lindir held out the flask, andThéo took it silently.Lindir stood as the other three came back to the fire that had been re-lit before they woke him.They had evidently been bathing; they used their cloaks to dry themselves and squeezed water from their sopping hair.They spoke quietly and easily between themselves, Théodred kept his head down letting his hair cover his face; none of them addressed him directly.

It was true – he had wanted to know what they were like in bed.He had felt so much tension inside him he was surprised he didn't shiver and ring like a struck blade!And what was worse… that bastard was absolutely right about all of it!

Théo tossed back his hair and took a deep drink from the flask, eyes closed, not against the bright early morning sky, for there was none, only dark clouds billowing up from the east.When he'd finished the remains of the flask he opened his eyes.Gwindor was folding blankets, Gelmir was cutting bread, Lórindol combed his wet hair.He saw Théo's face, nodded slowly in greeting and smiled.Théo slowly smiled back and suddenly realised – he felt relaxed. His shoulders felt loose, his head felt clearer… but his arse ached like a bastard!He scrambled gingerly to his feet.

"The cold water will help," said Lórindol, "…and Lindir has some oil that might ease you."

"I think I had enough of that last night!" remarked Théodred, but he was smiling now.

"Get washed.We'll have tea ready when you and Lindir are done, and then we'll leave."

Théo hobbled down to the rocky shore, stripped off his shirt and waded into the water.Lindir stood in the shallows, hip-deep in the cold water washing himself and his hair.Théo hissed as the icy water hit those warmest parts of him.

"Come over here, and I'll wash your back" Lindir called.

A little shame-faced Théo waded over.

"Turn around."

The rohir felt slick, soapy hands rub over his back, shoulders and arms with nothing more than quick efficiency.

"Put you head back and I'll soap your hair."

Obediently, Théo did so, closing his eyes against the soapy oil, enjoying the expert fingers massaging his scalp.

"You were right," he said finally.

"I know," said Lindir, "now lie back in the water and I'll rinse it."

Théodred sank into the water, shivering as it came up to his chest.He felt Lindir squeeze and rinse water through his hair and he sighed with what he realised was contentment.

"That's done," said the Elf.

"Shall I help you?" Théo asked hesitantly.

"Yes.That would be kind of you."

Lindir leant back across his arm and Théo fanned water through the elf's long and surprisingly silky hair.He found he liked swirling it through the water, and for several minutes Lindir let him play with his hair in silence.

"Is it done?" he asked eventually, shocking Théo from his reverie

"Er… yes.…Sorry"

Lindir stood. He faced Théo, standing closer to him than might normally have felt comfortable.

"We would never have done anything if you were not willing," Lindir said quietly, "You do know that, don't you?"

Théo nodded; he reached to lift a strand of wet hair from Lindir's face.Lindir gripped his wrist and lent in, kissing the man hard on the lips, the other hand snaking around to press his hips forward so they met belly to belly.Théo gasped and Lindir took the opportunity to run the tip of his tongue inside Théo's lips – then he let him go - grinned and said wryly.

 

"And just to let you know… you were a bloody good tup!"

 

 

Théodred laughed aloud and pushed him backwards into deeper water.

 

"I was a fucking fantastic tup!" he announced as Lindir spluttered to the surface. 

 

The elf laughed and held out his hand in friendship, "Yes, you were a fucking, fantastic tup!"

 

The two of them waded out and grabbed their cloaks, rubbing each other's backs hastily before picking their way back to the others.

 

"I thought you had drowned each other" remarked Lórindol, pleased to see that Théodred had recovered his good humour.

The two dressed quickly and settled down to eat.Lórindol sat behind Théo and began to comb his hair with a wide-toothed ivory comb, though the rohir resisted suggestions that the elf could plait it like theirs.Instead he found a leather thong and tied it back with that. 

 

 

 

Gelmir snorted as he walked by, and spoke, but with a smile.

 

 

Lindir translated: "He says 'a horsetail – what else?'"

Théo grinned, what else indeed!

They doused the fire, stowed theirgear in the boat and set off, Théodred insisting that he should take a turn at paddling.As they went, the Rohir introduced them to a very dubious song about a peat-cutter and his wife that had the elves spluttering with laughter as Lindir translated the raucous verses into Sindarin before Théo made them learn it in Westron. 

 

_ "I was up to me neck in the mud sir, on a peat contract down in the bog, _

___When me shovel it hit something hard sir, like a chest or an ol' lump of log…"_

 

And in the early morning the still river-banks echoed softly for a while to elven voices, while in the distant east the sky remained dark, and over Mordor lightening flashed inside boiling dark-grey clouds.It was only when the river turned and ran directly east that they faced the gathering storm and their mood became more sombre.

****************

[Lindir's 'Comrade's Song' = from October Project's 'Return to Me']


	19. The Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

They paused briefly mid-morning to pull into the bank to go ashore and relieve themselves, to stretch tired limbs and grab a quick meal of nearly-stale bread and left-over meat before embarking again to put on as many miles as they could travelling down-river.If the sun rose they barely noticed it; the day remained overcast and the sky full of dreary brown clouds.They stopped again mid-afternoon, though it was difficult to judge; they could only measure time in tired limbs and aching shoulders.

The Elves had elected to make a stop here and eat properly before continuing, into the night if necessary; paddling was becoming harder as the river flowed more slowly.It might be at least another two days before they met the junction in the river to the east of Edoras where the Snowbourne met the Entwash, somewhere below which, Haldir had assured him, a horse would find him and take him to join in king and father and the Riders of the Mark – and not any horse, a _M_ _earas_!

Théodred watched Gelmir gently knead the cramp from Gwindor's rapidly healing shoulder.He stooped to whisper in the other's ear and they both laughed softly, that they were more than merely brother-in-arms was obvious. Theo chewed a piece of hard bread absently as he tended the new-made fire, not meaning to stare across at Gwindor and Gelmir seated some little distance away, but watching them with a certain envy of their close companionship, especially out here in the wilds where a friend was a comfort indeed.Lórindol had gone along the bank to see if there where any rabbits holes that might mean fresh meat.Lindir had fetched some water and was setting it boil; he followed Théodred's eyes.

"Do you find it offensive?" he asked.

Théodred found he was staring again and hastily looked away from them.

"No!Not at all!"

He snorted softly and laughed when he realised Lindir was half-teasing him.Lindir settled himself comfortably at Theo's side.

"It is the way within the Wardenship.Some of us are dedicated to being warriors; others join for a period before going back to being farmers or craftsmen.Those who are permanent guardians of the realm fight together in close pairs, those couples are always lovers…"

He let the statement hang to judge Théodred's reaction; Theo nodded in understanding.

"…We know the other so well, we can judge their actions and they ours…"

"So you can anticipate the others' moves when attacked…" finished Theo.

Lindir nodded."Some are jealous of us.We are, you might say, the elite… but then, perhaps we deserve the luxury of love and companionship to offset the dangers and uncertainties, even when we are abroad!"He chuckled and leaned to press against Theo's arm, "…but then you know all about that!"

Theo grinned good-naturedly and shifted a little at the memory; he was still somewhat tender from their show of 'love and companionship', but he was curious.

"And… um… The Marchwarden himself…?

"I believe you have seen him together with Lord Celeborn…?"

Theo nodded, Lindir inclined his head in delicate assent.

Theo's lips formed a silent 'oh', he paused to consider, before he continued,

"The… Lady of the Wood… she knows…"He stopped, feeling foolish.

Lindir was not embarrassed to tell the tale: 

"Lady Galadriel is happy for her husband's happiness – his love is great enough to share.Master Haldir and Lord Celeborn found themselves many, many years ago, when the Marchwarden was only a young warrior, newly come as a novice to the wardens.He was trapped, under attack and in mortal danger. In his anguish and pain, thinking he had failed in his guardianship, he far-spoke Lord Celeborn, who was able to alert the others of the guard and go to Master Haldir's rescue.

The story goes the Marchwarden had all his life loved Lord Celeborn from afar, never daring to admit it, and was sure his love could never be reciprocated. We believe only soul-mates can far-speak with their partner, so to do so must have been a great shock for them both.It took many months for Master Haldir to recover from his injuries, and they have only rarely been separated for more than a few days since. Inyour years, that would be perhaps three or more thousand years ago. "

Théodred shook his head in wonder, _'…three thousand years_?And the Marchwarden looked no older than he did!It was a marvel – to be with someone that long… _to be that_ _old!_ '

Lindir continued, "After that, the organisation of the guard was changed. No one was sent out to do sentry duty alone, and that which had always existed, but was ignored became acknowledged and even encouraged among the guardians."

Théo could see the logic, but could also see the jealousies it might raise.

"Among elven kind, births are few, and male births far outnumber females.Even if we all wanted to have wives, that would be impossible.Iluvatar has made our path bearable, for nowwe too can have love and companionship; it would be an injustice would it not, to condemn many of us to a life of loneliness because some deemed it 'unnatural'?" 

Theo smiled grimly. He knew enough about loneliness, and the hope of snatched meetings; the casual encounters, pleasurable but unfulfilling, were a poor substitute for the one he really desired to wake up beside of a morning… 

Lórindol reappeared with a brace of rabbits, waving before going to the river's edge to gut and wash his catch.As Lindir searched a pack for some salt to add to the water, a troubling thought crossed Théodred's mind.

"But what if one of you dies…?"

Lindir looked him in the eye, "Then we go on.We deal with it when it comes to us in the best way we can!"

His face softened, when he realised from Theo's expression that he had spoken more sharply than he intended.He sighed.

"…You know yourself that a warrior in battle cannot think of death other than happening somewhere else, to someone else…"

Theo nodded silently. ' _Yes , he knew that such thoughts_ _were only for times when danger was not present, for calm introspection on a fine day, or maybe at the bottom of a wine-cup… One couldn't face an enemy expecting to die…'_

 

Théodred let the thought go, it was not a subject to dwell on here and now, but his thoughts crept back to Boromir.' _How was he?Where was he?Did he… did he remember…_ that _the two of them were one?'_

 

 

Lórindol reappeared with the skinned, jointed rabbits.

"Cut them up small," suggested Lindir, "We can't afford to linger, we don't know who is abroad.Let them cook quickly and we'll take the meat with us to eat later."

Lórindol did as he was bid.Theo stood to stretch his legs and gather more dead wood.A little way along the bank he found a patch of wild ransomes and dug up several handfuls of the tiny pungent bulbs to add to the rabbits.Lindir had chopped up a little of their dried meat and added that – half an hour later they were dipping the last of the hard bread into a thin broth, which was at least hot and tasty.

They stowed the gear back into the boat and set out again.If any of them realised how unnaturally quiet it was, none of them mentioned it to the others.It was hard to put your finger on what was… _not right,_ Theo thought -  until he realized - no birds had sung that morning.The quietness did begin to tell; every rustling branch, every fish that rose to splash the surface of the water alerted them to scan for danger, but it was never more than roosting birds or rising fish.Until Gwindor froze, put his out his hand to silence the paddles, and pointed to the eastern bank.Theo stared hard but could barely see what had caught the elf's eye – then spied in the distance some moving black dots, a group, but he couldn't tell how many…

"I count sixteen…" said Lórindol.

 

"No… there are another four, no five behind, wounded maybe… they're slower.They must be desperate to travel in daylight." said Lindir.

 

Gelmir replied by gesturing at the sky, such clouds and murk were barely 'daylight'.Gwindor pointed again, another two black dots laboured after the stragglers.

 

"Injured – they have been fighting, but at least they're moving away from us.We are too few to fight a large band." said Lindir. 

They had kept their paddles from the water and drifted as they spoke softly, even though the departing orcs were far too far away to hear them.

They continued,keeping a wary eye on the banks,but nothing moved for the rest of the day.The river's bluffs grew higher for a while as the waters cut a narrower path winding through some chalky hills.It made them wary not to be able to see over the banks and they paddled hard. But then they were through, the river broadened and now flowed between thickets of willow trees, the current swinging to and fro across the stream to make wide bends.For ease and speed they kept to the faster water, though it bought them near to the deserted banks.They had seen no more signs of life all day apart from an occasional water bird, and they joked quietly of who could shoot them a duck for supper.

Just as the real dusk began to fall, Gelmir spotted a fat cock-pheasant as the current swung them towards the west bank of the river.He seized his bow against mild protests from the others, and put an arrow through it, before insisting they paddled over so he could retrieve it.The water under the riverbank was shallow, but muddy; to have landed completely would have grounded the craft so Gelmir blithely climbed out to wade ashore.Although Theo couldn't understand, he got the drift that over Gwindor's protests, Gelmir was saying 'since he'd shot the bird, it was pointless to just leave it!'He waded into the shallows, ankle-deep in mud.

 

Suddenly, without warning, ugly black-feathered arrows skimmed the water and struck the craft.Black figures in misshapen armour leaped out of the nearby bushes. Gelmir turned to run, but a hurled knife in his back felled him; he landed face down in the water with an ominous splash.Gwindor tried to jump from the boat, but Lórindol forcibly restrained him as Lindir swiftly turned the craft and he and Theo paddled furiously, the boat pursued by thick-shafted arrows that thudded into the hull, or whistled evilly over their heads.

 

The orcs rushed into the water.One dragged Gelmir's head up, holding a knife to his throat ready to slice across, another yelled a guttural command. The first orc halted and paid for it by an up-thrust to his belly from the knife in Gelmir's hand.Another half dozen swarmed over him,punching and kicking to disarm and subdue the elf, but not to kill.Gwindor shouted and screamed abuse, straining his bow to send arrow after arrow amongst the pack of orcs.He felled two, but the shower of arrows from more orcs on the bank above them drove the elves back across the river to seek shelter.To Theo's horror Gelmir, very much alive and struggling furiously, was captured.A tall orc landed a blow to the back of the elf's head with the pommel of a jagged blade and he went limp.They hastily dragged him away into the undergrowth at the edge of the river.Meanwhile, the remaining orcs kept up a steady stream of arrows to keep the other elves at bay.

 

Lindir steered the craft ashore and they sheltered behind sparse bushes of young willow, able now to aim and shoot with deadly precision.Gwindor had to be dragged to shelter, kicking and shouting, and held back from swimming across the river before he grimly set to,taking careful, deadly aim at anything that moved. The first few orcs were easy enough to pick off, before the wiser ones became wary and shot from better cover.Gwindor kept up a vehement stream of withering curses, that even Theo could understand were about what he was going to inflict on these orcs if he got his hands on them.

 

Then the screaming started.

The first few were muffled cries of pain such as men made when receiving wounds in battle as they tried not to cry aloud, Théodred had heard their like more times than he cared to remember. But the next rose from terrible gasping cries to shuddering shrieks of agony.Theo had never thought to hear such a sound from an elf; he shuddered, flinched, looked away, trying not to even imagine what they must be doing to Gelmir to cause him to scream like that. The agonizingly shrill howls continued to sear through him; beyond bearing; barely stopping for breath, a sustained, terrible crescendo of agony.

 

Gwindor shoutedandcursed, hoarse with rage.He stood and strode down to the river firing arrows where he could.The orcs on the other side, making the mistake of standing in their glee to take aim at him, fell under the bows of Lórindol and Lindir.The last orc fled towards the unearthly screaming that had finally, finally begun to fail, faltering to piercingly anguished, bubbling cries, so piteously bereft… an awful, indelible sound to freeze the blood and coil like a worm into your worst nightmares.Theo would never forget those screams.

They pushed the boat out into the water and paddled furiously.Gwindor hadn't given up on his torrent of screamed abuse.Nearing the bank he leapt out and plunged through the water, the other two elves after him.

"Pull the boat up!"Lindir shouted over his shoulder at Théodred.

Knowing a direct order should be obeyed in battle, he hastily dragged the boat until it was securely held fast in the mud, before running to follow them towards the tiny copse of trees. Within the encompassing shadows, a few dead orcs littered the ground; the rest had fled.

Gelmir was stripped to the waist his arms wrapped around the largest tree trunk, his back dark with blood that stained his leggings crimson and dripped down to pool ominously at his feet.In the rapidly fading light he appeared, to Theo's eyes,to have a frame of thin, white branches strapped to his shoulders.Lórindol had pulled up in shock; Theo was at his back in time to hear him gasp harshly in abject horror.

"Blood Eagle!"

It was then the horselord saw the truth – these were no branches.The elf's ribs had been pared from his spine, broken and spread wide apart to appear like ghastly wings of gory flesh and bone…beneath them, the exposed lungs fluttered weakly.

 

Theo choked as bile rose in his throat.He vomited, heaving uncontrollably.Gwindor wept, raged and screamed as he broke off the heavy arrow-shafts that had been jammed into Gelmir's arms and hands to keep him in place against the tree.Lindir in grim silence struggled to help, but Gwindor fought him away.Gelmir mewled hopelessly, a frail, thin, inhuman sound beyond agony as he struggled to breathe, the blood choking in his throat.Sobbing, Gwindor freed Gelmir's body and took it into his arms, slumping to his knees in the pooled blood, trying to support the dead-weight of his lover.Gwindor muttered Gelmir's name over and over, but as Gelmir attempted to speak nothing came from his lips but bright, bubbling blood.

 

Gwindor had a knife in his shaking hand.He brought it up, hesitated, unable to bring himself to do what he knew he must.There could be no recovery from the harrowing damage inflicted; there was no other choice…Gelmir's eyelids fluttered, he struggled to nod once before painfully leaning his head back.Gwindor bent to kiss the exposed throat, lingering only briefly, then slashed once, deep and clean…

 

Gwindor couldn't put his arms around the body properly because of the frightful, bloody wings; he knelt back on his heels and howled his anguish, Gelmir's arms hanging limply over his shoulders.Lindir picked up Gelmir's discarded tunic and stepped forward, swiftly catching hold of the ribs, he heaved hard to press them back into place quickly, covering the dreadful injury on one side of the ravaged body as he did so.Gwindor howled with fresh pain and rage.Lórindol muttered the same violent expletives over and over in a bitter incantation of rage.He found a ripped shirt and put it in Lindir's bloody hands so he could make the other obscene wound decent.

Finally, Gwindor could turn the body over, as gently as he would a wounded comrade, weeping freely again to see that Gelmir's head and face were almost unmarked.A heavy trickle of blood ran from his nose, and where he had bitten his lips in efforts not to cry out at first, but the face that flopped back from the slashed throat was whole and recognisable, slack in death with no more traces of agony there.Gwindor rocked as he cradled his lover, dark blood seeping up his sleeves and tunic from the terrible injuries of Gelmir's ruined back.

Théodred felt the pain of being utterly helpless in the face of grief; he did not know what to do, how to help. Lindir came to his side, his hands and arms bloody.

"Stay with him," he murmured as he passed Theo on his way back to the river.In silence, Lórindol gathered up Gelmir's strewn weapons and belt.Gwindor rocked the body and sobbed.Théo, angry at his own helplessness, took an uncertain step towards Gwindor, but Lórindol saw him and gave a brief shake of his head.Lindir came back, his hands and sleeves still wet from river-water, carrying their cloaks.He went to kneel opposite Gwindor, who stared at him, a wordless agony in his eyes.

Lórindol beckoned Théo. "Go to the river and retrieve all of our arrows that are usable.I'm going to scout the perimeter and make sure they have fled."

Theo nodded, almost relieved to walk away; the terrible grief behind him was so palpable the very air thickened with it.

The white-fletched arrows were mainly embedded in dead orcs, and Theo had no compunction in cutting flesh to extract the barbs.The last orc groaned as he stuck his knife into its shoulder - it was alive!He searched it for weapons and shook it to stand; then, not having a clear idea why, forced it at knife-point back towards the trees.The orc limped badly from a leg wound.When Gwindor saw them enter the trees he froze; handed Gelmir's body into Lindir's arms and walked stiffly over to Théodred and the orc.

 

Gwindor was not weeping now.His eyes flashed with incandescent rage, but his face was held rigid in a cold mask of complete hatred.He seized the orc by throat and hip, lifted it. Half-kneeling, with a great cry of wrath, he bought the orc down with brutal force over his bent knee.There was a sickening crunch as its spine broke.Gwindor stood upright as the creature gurgled and twitched, alive but paralyzed, at his feet.Theo watched open-mouthed; then, realising he still had a knife in his hand; he stooped, automatically preparing to deliver the death-blow, the slash to the throat.Gwindor grabbed his arm, yanking him upright.Leaning close into Theo's face, he spoke harshly, but made his meaning vehemently clear – Theo was not to provide the mercy of killing it!

 

Gwindor stalked back to Lindir who had taken the opportunity to half wrap Gelmir's body in his cloak.Gwindor leant down, and tenderly finished wrapping the cloak around his dead lover; then he lifted him from Lindir's arms and walked away from the trees out into the gloom, though no stars shone in the darkening sky.Theo still stood over the orc; it could just move its head feebly. Lindir looked Theo steadily in the eye.

 

"Do not tempt Gwindor's wrath.Let the beast lie there."

 

Then he walked past, and joined Lórindol, who had just returned.They spoke very quietly together, before beckoning Théodred to join them.

"The orcs have scattered. There's no immediate danger, but where there is one band there may well be others," said Lórindol. 

"What about Gwindor?" asked Theo.

Lindir looked beyond the trees to the open ground where Gwindor sat on the ground facing west, Gelmir's body cradled across his lap.He looked back at the other two and shrugged.

"We wait."

There was a tumble of rocks nearby; they decided the comfort of a small fire well-screened was worth the risk at this time.Théo and Lindir went to lift the boat clear of the shallow water and make it secure.Lórindol lit a tiny fire among a hearth of rocks and kept an eye on Gwindor, who when he saw the preparations, carefully laid Gelmir down and stood.

"I'll get us some supper," he announced, and before Lórindol could say anything he strode away into the willow trees.

 

When Theo, and Lindir came back, Theo wanted to follow the stricken elf, but Lindir said, "No, give him a short while." 

 

Gwindor came back perhaps a half hour or so later, holding two brace of pigeons.Not shot; they'd been caught as they roosted and strangled.He tossed them to the ground and squatted down to pluck them, but as he lifted one he saw its lax wing droop open in the fire-light, a fan of splayed feathers.He stared at it, un-moving, until Lórindol gently took the dead bird from his hand and placed in it instead a small flask of strong spirit, encouraging him to drink, while Lindir shuffled the dead birds to one side out of sight.Gwindor was silent, he did as he was bid while sitting at Gelmir's side; he accepted a portion of cold stewed rabbit, but did not eat it.The others had no appetite, but struggled to eat and drink for sake of normalcy; no one spoke above a murmur.

 

In the silence they heard the half-dead orc snuffle.Gwindor's head whipped around, discovering something to focus on, and he began to get up, Lindir tried to stay him, but Gwindor shook his restraining arm away furiously, one hand hovering towards his knife.He spoke quietly through clenched teeth, his voice laced with cold venom, before stalking back into the copse; they heard something being dragged away.

 

After a long pause when the others where motionless, Théodred was about to ask what they should do, when thin rasping shrieks broke the silence.It was the injured orc.Theo started to get to his feet; Lórindol put out a hand and stopped him.Theo had seen this before, retribution enacted on a prisoner - it was not a good thing.Another cry broke the night, followed by a thick gurgle that quickly died to nothing; then, absolute silence.They waited, frozen, not meeting each others eyes, but Gwindor did not return.Lindir rose quietly, Lórindol and Theo following after him; they walked under the trees that already had the cloying stench of death thickening among them.

 

The orc lay under the tree where Gelmir had died.A black-arrow nailed its palm to the trunk; a long strip of skin had been peeled back from the wrist and hung like a rag from its upper arm.A second strip was open at the wrist; the flaying had been barely started.Now, its throat was cut cleanly; it was quite dead.Gwindor was nowhere in sight.

"Good!" nodded Lindir,

"Good?What…?" exploded Théodred, appalled.

 

"Yes, good – Gwindor swore he was going to peel every strip of skin from its living hide.The fact that he could not bring himself to do so is good."

 

Theo's thoughts were in turmoil, "So what do we do now?"he said eventually.

Lindir and Lórindol looked at each other.Lindir walked back towards their meagre camp.

"We wait until dawn." Lórindol said as he followed Lindir.

"What then?" demanded Theo.

Lórindol did not turn, "Then we leave."

"What about Gwindor?"

"If he has not come back by then… he will not be coming back at all."Lórindol walked away.

"And this one?"

Lórindol paused and turned on his heel, slightly exasperated at such details, 

"Let the carrion-eaters have them all!" 

He strode off; Theo was not inclined to think differently.He walked away from the dead orcs without looking back.

At the camp, Lindir had arranged the cloak loosely over Gelmir's face and left him laying just at the edge of the fire-light; covered now, he might have been sleeping.Theo sat down on the opposite side of the fire, but shifted slightly so that the wrapped body was not in his direct sight-line.

Lindir gave a grim smile. "He won't hurt you."

Theo blushed.They picked at the remains of the cold rabbit.Lórindol skinned the pigeons and sliced off the breast meat, setting it to cook on twigs over the fire.He took the wings and carcases to the far side of the rocks and buried them out of sight.The night drew on and there was no sign of Gwindor.They arranged to sleep in turns, but none of them actually felt like sleeping.They passed the flask of spirit between them, each agreeing "…it was only to keep out the cold…"

"Sing us a song, then, Horselord," Lindir said finally.

Théodred was about to demur, but he badly needed something to distract himself.He paused for a few moments, and then began very softly to sing one of his favourite ballads, a melancholy tune of lost love:

 

_ Now I loved a lad, and I loved him so well, _

 

_ That I hated all others who spoke of him ill, _

 

_ And now he's rewarded me well for my love, _

 

_ For he's gone and he's wed to another. _ __

 

 

 

_ When I saw my love to the hall go, _

 

_ With bride and bride-maidens they made a fine show, _

 

_ And I followed on with my heart full of woe, _

 

_ For he's gone and he's wed to another. _ __

 

 

 

_ When I saw my love sit down to dine, _

 

_ I sat down beside him and poured out his wine, _

 

_ And I drank to the laddie that should have been mine, _

 

_ Now he's gone and he's wed to another. _ __

 

 

 

_ So bring me my horse, my spear and my shield, _

 

_ And I'll ride out to fight o'er the bloodiest field, _

 

_ And though I may fall, I never shall yield, _

 

_ And maybe in time I'll forget him. _ __

 

 

 

_ So they brought him his horse, his spear and his shield, _

 

_ And he rode out to fight o'er the bloodiest field,   _

 

__

_ _

_ And though he did fall, he never did yield, _

 

_ \- And maybe by now - he's forgotten. _

 

 

A light breeze ruffled under Gelmir's cloak, almost as if the body gave a sigh.Theo drew back a little, to where Lórindol sat, his back against a tall rock.He caught the direction of Theo's apprehensive gaze, but merely said,

 

"Well sung Horselord. Now you can lean against me; I could do with a warm body at my side."

 

He cocked an eyebrow in jest, but Theo understood the invitation was made to quiet his jangled nerves rather than the elf's need for comfort. He shivered, not only from the cold.Lindir hummed a slow melody softly to himself as he fed the small fire.They barely spoke, simply waited quietly for dawn… and Gwindor.Eventually, Theo fell into an uneasy sleep against Lórindol's shoulder – but his dreams that night were not anything he later chose to recall.

 


	20. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

It was just before dawn when Theo started from fretful sleep to stare into the face of a nightmare.Gwindor knelt before him, his face mere inches away; a face that was a dreadful mask of dried blood highlighting the whites of wild, red-rimmed eyes.His hair hung forward, matted darkly with black blood, and around his blood-stained neck was a terrible necklace, a thong laced with orc ears, noses, and other gory trophies Theo did not wish to think about.The horror stared into his eyes, then seized his wrist with a blood-clotted hand and tried to press a darkly encrusted blade into it. Struggling with unfamiliar words, Gwindor whispered in halting Westron:

"Kill… me…"

Théodred shook his head.Gwindor tried to make Theo's fingers grasp the knife that he turned towards his own chest.

 

 

"Kill… me!"

Theo darted looks right and left, but the other two elves were nowhere in sight.Gwindor snarled through bared teeth as he used both hands to try and force Theo to take a grip of the filthy blade.

"Kill me!"

Abruptly, he keeled over sideways and slumped to the ground, narrowly missing the man.Lindor stood behind Gwindor; he'd struck the grief-maddened elf on the back of the head with the pommel of his knife.Lórindol appeared at his side and the two of them quickly bound his wrists and hobbled his ankles so he couldn't run.They stood back to look down at their work; in the stunned silence Theo asked,

"What now…?"

Lórindol unbuckled his tunic and tossed it aside, then quickly pulled off his boots.

"First… we clean him up."

Théo followed their example.He stood and shucked out of his leathers and grabbed his boots to heave them off.He paused, one boot in his hand.

"But what about the orcs?"

Lindir kicked off his boots as Gwindor stirred on the ground.

"There won't be any orcs around here for three leagues or more…"

He tugged the vile and bloody trophy from Gwindor's neck and tossed it to one side.

"…This is all that's left of them!"

They half carried him the short distance from their camp fire down to the river, wading out beyond the muddy shallows until they were waist deep in the flowing water.The cold revived Gwindor,who began to struggle against his bonds, hissing a fluent torrent of elven profanities.He arched his back and bucked against their restraining hands, trying to break free, then threw himself backwards, trying to plunge his head deep beneath the water in an effort to drown himself.

Théo shifted from holding Gwindor's feet, splashing around the struggling elves,to dive and grab Gwindor by the hair and pull his face above the water.He wound his arms about the elf's neck, supporting his head on his shoulder, bracing his feet in the mud to stop Gwindor submerging.Lórindol and Lindir held him fast, wrapping their arms around his body and legs, keeping from finding a purchase to spring away from as he fought against them.They cradled him between them, pressing closely against his body to quiet his struggles.

Automatically, Théodred found himself murmuring and crooning into Gwindor's ear as if the elf was a frantic colt, baulking at the ropes meant to break him to the bridle.He kept a firm hold of the elf's head making the gentle, soothing sounds of the horse-whisperers until Gwindor eventually exhausted himself and ceased to struggle so violently.All the pain of the previous day and the wild hunt through the night, slaughtering everything he could find, had finally left their mark on him; he slumped in his captor's arms.

Theo stroked his hair, loosening it to float in the water, where the foul blood began to wash away.Lindir tentively loosed Gwindor's wrists, but he had stopped thrashing about now and allowed them to support him in the water as they rubbed to remove the dried blood covering his whole body.The water ran foul with loose threads of darkness. Face cleaned now, they were able to see how very pale he was; he began to shiver in the flowing water.They half dragged, half carried the withdrawn elf back to their small fire; a few embers still glowed among the ashes there.Lindir made himself busy re-kindling the fire to life.Lórindol beckoned to Théo to help him strip the clothes from Gwindor, then noticed that Theo's teeth were chattering aswell.

 

"Best strip out of your clothes, too."

 

Théo found himself so cold now he could only nod.Lórindol wrapped the now naked Gwindor in a cloak and made him sit near the fire side.

 

"Come and sit with him.We need to take turns – no, sit behind and wrap your arms around him." Lórindol instructed Théo, wrapping a blanket about them both as they sat.

"Will he try to run away?" Théodred asked.

 

Lórindol shook his head, stripping off his own sodden leggings and drying himself with his cloak.

"No… not his body anyway. Hold him tightly, skin to skin - so he can feel your warmth and your grip on him."

 

Gwindor's hair was cold and wet against Théo's chest.He gently combed his fingers through the wet mass and pushed it forward over the elf's shoulder before pressing closely against his back.Gradually his chilled skin warmed at the contact with Gwindor's.Theo squeezed the dripping water from their hair and pressed it with the blanket about his shoulders to take away the worst of it as Gwindor shifted slightly in his arms.Theo hugged him tighter and very softly began to murmur a slow song into the elf's neck, letting his warm breath play over the pale stretched skin as Gwindor's head sank forward.He found himself rocking them both, as if he cradled a sick child in his arms.He gathered Gwindor's cloak to the front of them and as much as he could, he rubbed the elf's body to dry him, and himself; all the while crooning reassuringly.

 

Lórindol fetched water from the river and set it to boil for tea before he beckoned Theo that he would take his place behind Gwindor.They shifted positions without great difficulty, Gwindor sitting listless, but obedient. Eyes half-closed, he moved like a sleep-walker, or one heavily sedated by poppy-juice.Lórindol frowned and shook his head: such disinterest was not good.

Lindir arranged their sodden clothes around the fire to dry.Théo had no other clothes of his own now, but to his surprise, Lindir handed him Gwindor's spare shirt and leggings from his pack.

"I will give him Gelmir's clothes. Better he wear them than smell them on you," he said.

Theo nodded;having seen Gwindor in a rage, he had no wish to provoke him.

"Shall we dress him?"asked Theo.

Lindir shook his head.

"Not yet.He has another task to perform yet in the river."

 

Lórindol looked up, Lindir shrugged. "It is the best way."

 

Lórindol frowned and looked as if he were about to protest, but then thought better of it and nodded slowly in agreement.Lindir stood upright and took a step away from the fireside.   Then, Lórindol gripped Gwindor more tightly, bracing his legs around Gwindor's, asLindir strode across to where Gelmir's body still lay and lifted it up in his arms, hastily striding away with it towards the river. A strange high-pitched mewling came from Gwindor's throat, more the piteous cry of an animal than anything.He struggled in Lórindol's arms.

 

"Hold his legs, Théodred!"Lórindol commanded, as Gwindor's struggles became more urgent.

 

Théo hurried to do as he was bid, kneeling across their intertwined legs, holding them down with his body-weight and catching hold of Gwindor by the wrists.

"Gwindor, Gwindor…calm, we will follow," murmuredLórindol."…Just a few moments and we will follow…"

Gwindor's eyes fluttered open.He stared first into Theo's face, and then tried to turn his head to Lórindol.

"Hush, hush, my friend – we will go to him.Lindir prepares – you know what we have to do.You must give him to Ulmo."

Gwindor stifled a wail of grief that shook his whole body.

"You know you must – he cannot rest here with dignity.Let Ulmo gather him into his merciful care and carry him to Mandos," whispered Lórindol.

Gwindor shook, his face crumpled with pain and grief.Lórindol and Théo continued to hold him fast, and after a few minutes he nodded curtly.Lórindol nodded that Théodred should release them.They helped Gwindor to his feet, wrapping the blanket and cloak about him and supporting him as they slowly retraced their steps to the river.

Lindir had been busy.He'd cut strips from the bottom of the cloak Gelmir was wrapped in to make bands to hold it tightly in place as a shroud.He'd also found a large flat rock and positioned it on Gelmir's chest, binding it tightly into place.The corpse lay on the grassy river bank above the river.At the sight, Gwindor shook off their helping hands, and strode forward to fall to his knees beside the enshrouded body.He sat motionless for several minutes, during which time Lórindol stripped out of his clothes and stood with his back to Théo, oblivious of his nakedness.   Théo could only admire the beautiful, athletic form in front of him, even as he cursed himself furiously for noticing the graceful curve and swell of the elf's well-muscled back and buttocks, and the fine length of his thighs '… _and at such a time as this…!_

 

Gwindor reached out to part the cloak from Gelmir's face.He bent down and kissed first the cold lips, then his forehead in a final benediction. He sat back shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and bent to gather Gelmir in his arms, struggling slightly with the ungainly amount of weight the rock gave to the body.   Lórindol stepped forward and touched Gwindor's shoulder.

 

 

"Come, Gwindor, my brother," he said quietly, "I'll help you take him to the water."

 

Gwindor shrugged away his hand with a snarl and struggled to his feet, holding Gelmir's upper body in his arms.Lórindol ignored the rebuff and bent to pick up Gelmir's legs, now bound at knee and ankle.The two of them waded out into the river in silence, sinking deeply into the soft mud. Lindir stood on the bank and chanted benisons in a whisper.Théodred stood at his side and watched, his own heart deeply touched by their sorrow.

The elves were nearly chest deep in the river when Gwindor suddenly pulled away from Lórindol, clasping Gelmir to his chest and throwing himself backwards so that the weighted body pushed him under the water.The two rapidly disappeared beneath the surface. 

"No!"shouted Lórindol.

He jack-knifed with a splash, diving after them; his limbs a flash of white in the murky green waters.

Théo started forward, but Lindir held his arm, pulling him back from rushing in after them.The river stilled as the ripples rolled away and flattened to nothing.For several long moments only the early morning breeze disturbed the surface and rustled through the long grass around them.Still Lindir grasped Théo's arms, preventing him from going into the river after them.Théodred almost believed they were both lost, when Lórindol suddenly erupted to the surface with Gwindir flopped boneless in his arms.

 

He swam with difficulty, hauling the unconscious elf towards the shore.Now Lindir released Théo and they splashed into the muddy shallows to help drag the apparently lifeless elf from the river.On the grassy bank, they threw him face down. Theo straddled his buttocks and pummelled his back pressing hard again and again to force the water from Gwindor's lungs.After what seemed an eternity, Gwindor spluttered and began to come around, thrashing about with growing agitation.Lindir slapped his face hard and shouted at him unmercifully, shaking his shoulders until his head flopped alarmingly.Gwindor coughed and choked, but Lindir was unrelenting, shouting at the half-drowned elf as he shook him violently.

 

 

 

 

Théo stepped back, breathing heavily;he didn't understand the tirade, but realised Lindir was demanding that Gwindor came back to them from where ever he was so anxious to follow Gelmir.Suddenly, Gwindor pushed Lindir hard, shouting back at him angrily.Lórindol had pulled his leggings and shirt back on again, he came forward to grab at Gwindor, but the distraught elf aimed a mighty blow at him, which Lórindol easily dodged.He grappled with Gwindor, as Lindir shot to his feet and joined Lórindol in attempting to subdue Gwindor.

 

"Stay back!"shouted Lindir to Théodred as he stepped forward to help them.

 

After several minutes of scuffling they had the naked, slippery elf secured by twisting his arms behind him until he was on his knees, his head bowed to the ground.They held him there, panting slightly; Lórindol spoke quietly in a conciliatory manner. Theo picked up the blanket and stepped forward to place it over the elf, who had now stopped struggling.Tentatively, Lórindol eased his grip to loose his arm lock.When Gwindor remained acquiescent, Lindir followed suit.They freed him and helped him to his feet, wrapping their arms about his waist, supporting him back towards the camp fire.

 

Gwindor was quiet now.They rubbed him dry, chaffing his skin back to warmth, and as they spoke softly to him, they dressed him in Gelmir's spare clothes.As they did so, Gwindor sniffed, he held one arm across his face and buried his nose in the shirt sleeve that still bore the scent of his lost love.Tears began to stream down Gwindor's cheeks, though he made not a single sound.They finished dressing him, wrapped him in a cloak and sat him by the fire.All the while he continued to bury his head in the sleeve and weep in silence.Théodred had never seen a more melancholy sight.


	21. The Mearas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 There was little to say so not one of them spoke.Lindir signaled to Théodred to watch Gwindor, but the stricken elf simply sat, curled up, his knees bent supporting his arms, his face buried in the sleeves; imperceptibly rocking as his shoulders shook with silent sobs.Between them, they gathered their packs and checked their weapons.Lórindol bundled up Gwindor's gore-encrusted clothes and took them a short distance away; he scooped out a shallow hole and buried them, dragging stones over the top to prevent wild animals digging for them, attracted by the stench of blood.He returned as Théodred and Lindir launched the boat.Gwindor had not stirred from his misery, though his body no longer trembled.

 

They stowed all their gear aboard, including Gelmir's pack, and when they were ready to depart, the two elves went to fetch Gwindor.Lindir touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"We are leaving now – Come." 

They gently helped him stand, and, moving like one deeply asleep, he did not protest as they walked him to the shore.After settling him, half-lying in the middle of the boat, Lórindol tucked Gelmir's cloak over him.Gwindor's face crumpled a little and he pulled the fabric close, burying his face in it.Théodred frowned; Lórindol saw him and spoke softly.

"Let him have the comfort of it while he may, scent and memories are all that is left to him at present." 

Théo nodded slowly; they climbed into their places and pushed from the shore, eager to be away from the place that held such horror and grief for them all. 

Gwindor remained huddled in the bottom of the boat.After a while, Lindir passed him a water flask and urged him to drink; the elf did as he was bid, but in the absent manner that merely showed he could not find the energy to argue.Lindir had to take the flask from his Gwindor's unresponsive fingers.He stoppered it thoughtfully. 

 

"Rest now, Gwindor.We will watch for you."

 

The now compliant elf sighed and obediently relaxed back, curled up, eyes half-closed. 

They paddled on without incident, down the river that steadily broadened, meandering more often now between willows and banks of reeds that often hid the shore, but likewise hid them from the eyes of enemies that might be traveling across the plain.All the while the land began to look more familiar to Théodred.There were no landmarks he recognized as such… but this was the Mark.He was coming home!

 

'…But what was he coming home to?'

 

He dug his paddle deeper into the water and tried to banish thoughts of foreboding with hard work.The Elves caught his mood and quickened their pace, making up for time lost.By mid-morning Théodred knew exactly where they were, approaching the ford, the Entwade.At the shallows, they took a break, shaking Gwindor out of his reverie to stretch his legs with them.From a pack, Lindir took a carefully hoarded supply of lembas and distributed pieces to each of them.Refreshed, they set forth again;even Gwindor seemed uplifted… at least, until he said something that made the other elves' faces cloud over.

"What did he say?" asked Théo. 

"He said to make sure we kept some for Gelmir's return."Lindir replied tersely. 

Théodred lapsed into silence.They guided the boat through the shallow water unladen, wading though the water before climbing back in.Gwindor stood at the side of the boat staring sightlessly downstream.

"Get in,Gwindor, we must leave." Lórindol urged gently in Sindarin.

"I want to stay with Gelmir..."

"Not yet." 

Gwindor smiled, "Oh it's all right.He's just swimming ahead – we can catch up with him in the boat, before the current takes him too far…"And with that he clambered in, taking his position and picking up a paddle.Lindir looked at Théodred.

 

"Let Lórindol share his bench – you and I will sit behind."

 

"What's the matter?" whispered Théo.

 

"He thinks Gelmir is swimming with us." Lindir said softly.

 

Théodred's lips formed a silent 'ooo…' …this was not good.Gwindor paddled as hard as they did,and when they stopped for a short while to drift and ease their shoulders, he did nothing but trail his hand in the water, murmur softly occasionally to the water and smile as he watched the ripples swirl around his fingers.They watched him and his attention to the water closely, but apart from being otherwise silent, he behaved much as usual.They made good time now, finding a rhythm between them, dipping and rising, paddling swiftly.

 

They judged it well after midday when they stopped again, though it was hard to tell because of the thickening clouds.Finding a shelf of shingle above the water-line, but hidden by a thick screen of willows on the bank above, they beached the boat and climbed stiffly out.Lórindol judged it secluded enough to chance a small fire for a hot drink; he set Théo to collect some driftwood while he made a hearth of stones and Lindir climbed the bank to make sure they were as isolated as they thought.Gwindir remained on the shore, sitting on some low rocks staring out into the river.It was when Lindir offered him some tea and he asked why he hadn't bought some for Gelmir, that the two elves became worried again. 

"He says we must brew some more for Gelmir, because he'll be cold when he's finished his swim." Lindir reported. 

Lórindol, sitting cross-legged, buried his face in his hands for a moment before leaning his elbows on his knees and, palms together, tapping his thumbs on his chin in thought.Lindir helped them all to more tea in silence.

 

"Well?" said Théo. 

There was another pause before Lindir spoke. 

"We cannot encourage him in a lie… but neither can we be brutal…" 

"We must just… remind him, gently… that Gelmir is no longer with us." 

"Gelmir is dead." Théodred stated flatly. 

The two stared at him, finally Lórindol spoke: 

"Yes.We know that.Even Gwindor knows that – we just have to encourage him to accept it." 

 

It was then it dawned on Théodred – Death was an unfamiliar thing to them.They were warriors; deaths happened, but only in battle – or sometimes afterward, from poisoned wounds… but it was still a thing rarer to them than it was to him.He had the knowledge, or at least firm belief, that his ancestors, shield-friends and comrades would be united in the Great Hall… why,he'd even come close to that door… but what did they believe?Was there nothing for them?No place after Arda?'No wonder Gwindor wants to keep his love with him…'

Back in the boat again, they decided to paddle on until sunset, and then look for a place to camp.By the time the light had darkened towards night, they were entering the woods where the Snowbourne joined the Entwash.Edoras was perhaps sixteen leagues directly to the west… Théodred's heart ached for home, for news of his father… for news of Boromir…He pushed the thoughts away and took command of their halt for the night; this was, after all, his realm they were in now.He knew of a glade, hidden, but near the river.A place where a spring rose to pool below a sheltering bluff that had hollowed to a dry shelter; a fire would be unseen and they could fill their flasks with fresh water… shoot a rabbit for supper…Théodred's description was persuasive.

 

It was not far from the river; they pulled the boat up and hid it in the bushes.As Gwindor picked up Gelmir's pack as well as his own to follow the rohir into the woods, Lindir hushed Lórindol's mild protest. 

"Later – we'll speak of it later." 

The glade beneath the small hill was everything Théodred had promised, secluded, well-watered, with a sheltering cave floored with soft dry loam to sleep on…

 

"This must be a place for lover's trysts…" said Lórindol."Very pleasant… I dare say the Lord of Stone is familiar with it also?" he ventured with a seemingly innocent smile. 

And Théodred had the grace to blush – before asserting he knew where the rabbits were, so he'd best catch their supper, and quickly trotting off. 

With practiced efficiency the three elves began to set up camp.A stone hearth was already built, proof of occupancy on many previous occasions.They gathered kindling, fetched water, and Gwindor laid out bed-rolls… for five.Lindir caught sight of him, and walked over – enough was enough.

 

"Gwindor – four sleeping places are all we need…" 

Gwindor looked up at him, looked down at the spread blanket and cloak and said: 

"I know.I began to make his bed out of habit, and then found I couldn't stop…" 

 

Lindir knelt beside him, and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Why don't you lay the blankets closer together tonight?The air grows chill and I dare say we will all appreciate a little warmth from each other's bodies." 

He helped Gwindor rearrange the bed-rolls into one large space for four.

Lórindol had a fire going and water boiling by the time Théodred returned with a brace of rabbits – the elf had even found the cache of salt, dried herbs, oil and honey hidden inside an iron pot tucked away at the back of the little cave – but to spare Théo's blushes said nothing… though his and Lindir's grins were more than enough to tell they knew exactly how the rohir came to know this spot so well!

 

Supper was stewed rabbits, well seasoned with herbs, in a rich gravy thickened with a little of the crumbled lembas.Lindir made a heady drink from some of the honey, hot water and the reviving liquor from his small flask; satiated and warm, they all felt the better for it. 

 

After a while Gwindor stood; muttering about relieving himself, he wandered off into the darkness of thewoods. Lindir nodded at Lórindol, and then followed him at a discreet distance, leaving Théodred and the elf by the warm glow of the fire.Encouraged by the liquor and the comfortable heat, Théo ventured a few questions to satisfy his curiosity: 

"How… long have you been together?" 

Lórindol looked up from his contemplation of the flames; he paused, half between memory and thought. 

Lindir and I…?Or Gwindor with Gelmir?" 

"Either… both.And how old are you actually?" 

"Gwindor… is much the same age as the Marchwarden.They joined the Wardenship at about the same time – some of us are craftsmen or farmers and might take a turn as wardens for two _yén_ in every twelve before returning to their calling, others choose to join permanently – their life becomes the Wardenship.Gelmir joined perhaps five _yén_ later – that would be long-years, which are, let me see… 144 of your years…"

 

Théodred's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he remained silent, not willing to break this rare confidence.Lórindol continued:

 

"That was soon after the attack on Haldir when he was alone as a border-guard at a distant post; Gwindor was a good friend of Haldir and his brothers – he was in the party that rescued him.He had been captured and tortured by wildmen from Dunland," he paused, shook his head, " …even now they never speak of it – they killed them all, of course…"

Something Théodred had no doubtabout,having witnessed Gwindor's rage in action.

 

"Gwindor and Gelmir became hand-fasted about five _yén_ later.Apparently there was some talk before of Gwindor and Haldir's brother Rúmil being partnered, but nothing ever came of it… So in your terms, they will have been together about two thousand years…"

 

 

"So Gwindor is…an important member among the marchwardens, then?"

"He has never wanted to be a leader or hold rank, but he is much trusted by both Lord Celeborn and the Marchwarden, as was Gelmir…"

 

Théodred nodded to himself, '…yes, they had accompanied Haldir on his mission to find him and Boromir…' then added,"So, they didn't have to escort me… in fact - they should be the ones returning to defend Dwimodene!Oh… My apologies… I did not mean to belittle you… or Lindir…"

 

Théodred halted in some confusion that he had spoken out of turn.Lórindol waved the indiscretion away:

 

"Oh, Lindir and I are very much the juniors – we volunteered when they needed somebody to speak Westron…I am barely three thousand years old, Lindir even younger.Our hand-fasting was less than ten _yén_ ago… Lindir will remember exactly, I never can… He gets quite cross about it!I pretend not to know such things to tease him."Lórindol added with a grin.

 

"What will happen – to Gwindor?"Théo said eventually.

 

Lórindol sighed: "I do not think he will fade now… it is difficult…Gelmir has gone to the Halls of Mandos.He will wait there, perhaps for longer than you can imagine, perhaps he will return – some do, eventually.Who are we to say how long it will take him to forget his hurts?Gwindor's first thought, after the rage of losing Gelmir, was to join him – many feel that way.He still might fade, but the signs are different… I do not believe he will…"He shrugged.

"We are warriors, we wardens – death is by no means unknown, and in this rising darkness it comes to more and more… which means that there are those left who are left partner-less.To survive and leave the Wardenship…?Very few do that, and if they do,they remain haunted, theireyes shadowed…" 

He paused and shuddered at the memory of such a one. 

"No.The wheel turns – those who are left are encouraged to find new partners…Not forced,mind…Some take an old companion in arms; some might form an alliance with a new warden, when mentorship can blossom into more…We are what we are; only our like can truly understand us."

 

That was a statement Théodred could vouch for; he felt a natural kinship with other warriors, even personal animosity did not really undermine his understanding of them… Merchants and the like?What they did left him baffled – oh,he had to understand commerce to be a king… but he was a warrior at heart, and his first love was for other warriors… especially one… who was far away…he sighed.

 

"Do not fret,Master Horselord, your warrior will be in the best of hands by now…"

 

Théo looked up sharply '…but they could still read him so easily!'Lórindol just laughed at the expression on his face.

 

Gwindor burst back into the firelight, rushed by them and flung himself down on his bed-roll with his back to them.Lindir followed more slowly some moments later, rubbing his jaw. Lórindol cocked an enquiring eyebrow as the other elf sank down beside him.

 

"He said he does not need to be minded like a child– then he hit me." 

"And you did not think to duck?"

 

Lindir shrugged, "He didn't really mean it – after all,it's not broken!"

 

He tried to grin, but frowned as it hurt.Lórindol snorted with amusement.

 

"Maybe I had better be on his side of the blankets tonight, then," he said.

 

They banked the fire, and tidied the camp for the night before getting ready to rest – Lórindol lay beside Gwindor without touching him.Lindir lay against Lórindol, and Théo curled up on the other side of Lindir.The night was chill away from the fire and the man shivered a little.

 

"Come closer, Rohir – your chattering teeth will disturb us all otherwise."

 

And with that Théo found himself dragged closer by Lindir, until they lay close together, body to body, the elf's arm comfortingly across his chest.He quickly drifted into a deep sleep, only briefly disturbed by muffled sobs and Lórindol's gentle reassurances to Gwindor.Lindir held the man and curled closer, whispering softly in his ear, 

"Sleep, Prince Théodred.We know how to look after him."

 

Morning dawned a dull grey that inside the thick woodland was little more than twilight.Théo woke with Lindir still curled beside him.He lifted his head.Gwindor sat beside the fire that Lórindol was re-kindling. 

Lindir stirred, still curled at Théo's side, murmuring, "Good – you're awake." He rolled on to his back and stretched mightily, 

"I must say, having a man to hold on to in the night is more comfortable than a hound, nice and warm and no wet tongues… though - that might not come amiss…" 

 

He winked at Théo, who was initially a little affronted at being compared to a dog.Lindir bounded up with a laugh and slapped the rohir's shoulder in passing, striding down to splash his face in the spring.

 

Théo blinked himself awake and rose, stretched and followed the elf who was crouching, splashing water over his face and neck.Ablutions over, they joined the two at the fire.

 

"We should find our mounts today," said Lórindol.

 

Théo paused in chewing his break-fast lembas: '…Yes!'

 

"You know your way now,Prince," Théodred nodded."And it would be a good time for us to return..."

 

Lórindol glanced at Gwindor who stared moodily into the fire, chewing the cold haunch of a rabbit more slowly and thoroughly than was needed.

 

"The Mearas will be fleet enough to outrun any pursuer. I think you will be safe enough from now onwards."

 

The rohir frowned a little. He did not take kindly to the thought of 'child minders' either; he pondered for a moment. 

 

"Which way do you think I should travel?I do not know where the Riders are."

 

"We think they will already have mustered, though our news is old.They ride to the aid of Minas Tirith – if you ride south and east, you should hear of their passing from the cotts and farms you come across. If you do not, then they are behind you and you should wait for them."

 

Théodred nodded, chewing thoughtfully, '…that sounded perfectly reasonable.'

 

"And what of yourselves?"

 

Lórindol was eating so Lindir replied:

 

"There will be horses for us, too.We were going to return to the forest, but…" He glanced at Gwindor. "I think now we should try to ride for Lorien."

 

Gwindor snarled a few angry phrases, which made Lindir bow his head; he spoke a few words in a conciliatory fashion in response.

 

Lórindol paused, as if considering the translation, "He says, now that you are able to do your duty to your king… we should return to do ours."

 

But to Théodred's ear there was a lot more anger there than Lórindol chose to convey.Nevertheless, he bowed his head in Gwindor's direction and spoke one of the Sindarinphrases he had picked up.

 

_"Le hannon."_

 

Gwindor looked mildly surprised, before he put hand to chest and ducked his head briefly in response.

 

Shortly after, they gathered their gear together and walked the short distance back to the river where they had concealed their boat.It was swiftly launched and they were off, the current of the joining Snowbourne giving them extra speed as the river flowed directly south before slowly veering round to the east.Ahead, the noxious vapours high over Mordor were thicker than ever – all of them frowned as they dug deep to paddle harder, taking themselves closer to the darkness.

 

The land was flatter here, the river broader; it was a dilemma as to which bank tokeep nearer to, or whether to take advantage of the swifter water mid-stream.In the end they decided for swiftness and counted on the fact that any enemy force was likely to be traveling on only one bank and thus they could steer to the other side.They had paddled hard for some leagues when they saw the pale shapes standing on a shallow bluff above the south side of the river – pale shapes that also spotted them as they rounded a bend in the water-way, and came trotting towards them – the Mearas!

 

Instantly, Théo spirits rose. It had been a childhood dream to ride one of these horses, and now it was about to come true!The elves smiled at each other, partly at the rohir's very evident enthusiasm and partly because the horses would make their own way home far easier.It was not long before there were three of the magnificent beasts trotting along the bank parallel to them, as they sought a suitable landing point to disembark.The river turned south again to round a low hill and as it bent back on its path it had created a wide shallow beach inside the bend.They headed straight to where the horses waited for them, pawing the earth impatiently.

 

It took little time to get their packs from the boat, but then, what to do with it?Lindir thought they should let it go, to find its way to the sea, but Théo pointed out that between the boat and the Anduin was the Mouths of the Entwash, a labyrinthine area of bogs and marsh and narrow, shifting waterways, some too shallow for even the draft of the slender elven boat – it was bound to become mired among the reed-beds.

 

"Then let it – if it becomes a roost for wild duck, so be it…Rather that, than break a hole and sink it…"The latter had been Théo's thought which the elves were reluctant to agree with.

 

In the end, they let the boat go to find its own fate – and many weeks later, a fisherman beyond Pelargir was startled to see an empty, pale, grey boat, slender as the reeds caught under its prow, slip down the river in the moonlight, as straight as if someone steered it.

 

But now was the time for other partings. Gwindor nodded with only small hesitation when Lindir wanted to open Gelmir's pack.He knelt to do it himself, taking out the provisions for Lórindol to divide equally between the four of them – the remaining items he pushed back inside, rolling the reduced pack up and pushing the whole thing inside his own.There was no room for food now, but Lindir and Lórindol simply divided Gwindor's share between them and repacked it into theirs.

There was nothing now but the awkward pause before saying good bye – abruptly broken by Lórindol flinging his arms around Théodred in a warrior's great bear-hug.He released him, gripped the man's forearms and shook him firmly.

"May we meet again in better times, Prince Théodred."

 

"Let us pray for that.My thanks to you and all you have done for me."

 

Gwindor was next. He put hand to chest and bowed his head – before unexpectedly gripping the rohirs's shoulders, looking him in the eye and formally kissing him on both cheeks before releasing him.Théodred was somewhat taken aback; he placed a hand to his chest and bowed low.

 

"You and Gelmir will always be in my thoughts; I honour the hour of our meeting," he said formally.Lindir translated; Gwindor inclined his head.

 

"You – in mine." Gwindor said in halting Westron, before going to the side of one of the Mearasthat nickered at his touch on her neck.

 

Finally Lindir bowed, before gathering Théo into his arms in a great hug, whispering in his ear:

 

 

"Maybe another time, my Horselord?You were, after all, as I said before, a very pleasurable tup!" 

Lindir let go of him and they caught each others arms, grinning.In the elf's face Théo saw genuine warmth – it was only after they'd parted he briefly considered that 'another time' to an elf could be… twenty, fifty, a hundred years from now… when he would no longer be anybody's tup! 'No matter – the moment was now!'

 

"You are always welcome in my hall – you and any others of your kind."

 

"Even the Marchwarden?" Lindir said mischievously with a quirk of a smile.

 

"Even my Lord Haldir!"Théo assured him with a grin."But Lindir, you will do something for me?Look after Boromir.Tell him when you return – I will keep my promise."

 

Lindir nodded.They stood in silence for a moment.Then Lórindol came towards them, a fine stallion walking at his shoulder.

 

"He says his name is Wind-dream. He is to take you onwards."

 

Théodred put his hand above the horse's nose so that it might smell him.

 

"Wind-dream…!"He murmured, eyes shining.

 

Gwindor spoke briefly and the other two elves burst out laughing.Théodred turned…

 

Lindir shook with laughter, barely able to get the words out:

 

"Gwindor said, 'Love at first sight, but what will the children be like?' "

 

Théodred laughed aloud, and the stallion tossed its head and turned away.

 

Laughter broke the tension, but trailed away as they contemplated the sombre paths ahead of all of them, Prince Théodred to his father, the King… the Elves to defend their own lands – and none knew if they said goodbye, or a final farewell.

 

 

Gwindor swung himself up onto the mare who had evidently taken him as her own.Lórindol mounted another mare, Lindir handed him their packs, before coming to Théo's side.

 

"I wish you well, Prince - and if all goes for the best, we will meet again perhaps.Whatever befalls us, though, I will look to Lord Boromir on your behalf."

 

Théo lent forward briefly and kissed Lindir quickly on the lips:

 

"Give him that from me," he said softly, before grabbing a handful of mane and allowing Lindir to boost him onto the stallion's back.Lindir handed Théodred his pack and said:

 

"I pray to Elbereth, you may pass it on yourself. _Namaire ,_ my Prince!"

 

He slapped the hind-quarters of the Mearah, who started away like an arrow from the bow.Prince Théodred whooped once, raising an arm in salute, before bending forward over the stallion's neck as it galloped away over the plain, heading south and east.

 

Lórindol urged the other mare forward, bent down and offered his arm to Lindir; the elf sprang up behind him and the two pale horses set off – northwards to Lorien.


	22. Boromir goes to Lorien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The elves covered the ground swiftly at a lopingjog.None spoke; the only sound was the brush of booted feet through the grass, a rustling no louder than a strong wind over the plain.Boromir felt as if he watched himself from a distance; as he looked he could see around him the running elves, but it was as if he followed on the breeze, somewhere above his own shoulder.The man who ran, was him… but not him; he felt the unevenness of the tussocky ground beneath his feet… but they weren't quite his feet, or his breath rasping in the man's throat… And his thoughts… some of those were strange indeed. They whirled like the brightly coloured chips of glass in the kaleidoscope toy he'd had as a child… sometimes forming patterns, sometimes a vivid jumble - but was it _his_ childhood he was remembering?It felt alien… wrong… wrong, not him, no not, not him… 

Lord Celeborn seemed to come both beside and into him, his presence a wordless golden comfort… and Boromir felt himself relax as his near panic retreated.His breathing deepened, and his feet stepped swift and lightly on the ground without catching in the tangled grasses.Now he was the observer again, a part not only of the man whose shoulder and chest ached dully, but also, in some small way, of the strong, pale-haired elf who gleamed faintly as he ran on one side of him.But it was the silvery flame of an elf-lord that ran on his other side that drew him – him he knew, and felt, and… and further afield - he was part of the plain, the approaching glorious woodland, the stones, the streams, the earth… He was coming home!His heart lifted in joy, and he felt the ancient trees sing to him in welcome. Behind them was another voice though, the cool, clear tones of a woman's voice that bade welcome and haste in a single thought, that sorrowed to hear of the dead, delighted to hear of their safe return and cautioned that foraging bands of _yrch_ had been seen abroad – but overall, the richly powerful thoughts counselled speed with caution.

Celeborn's eyes silvered over as he far-spoke his wife in answer to her welcome.She questioned in surprise that he bought Boromir not only with him, but within him…The elf-lord pictured briefly the circumstances, and felt the wave of warm compassion roll out to him.As she focussed her power on all the returning elves, they each felt themselves quicken as their spirits lightened a little in response to the Lady of Lorien.It was not far now, the trees ahead of them were clearly in sight even though the light from the east was obscured by murk and darkness into a sombre twilight. They would soon be home.

At one end of the line of advancing elves a cry rang out.Bow strings twanged and a dark shape lurched up from some nearby rocks, before falling sideways.Others fled away, pursued by the sentry elves that flanked the main party until they were called back.The host halted briefly, gathering nearer, facing outwards.The returning elves checked the orc – it was dead, a grey-fletched arrow through its throat.

"They come boldly and close!"Haldir said.

Lord Celeborn nodded, "We return just in time.The power in the East stirs, thinking to take us by surprise."

Lord Celeborn instructed his captains to move the able-bodied warriors ahead and to the flanks while the injured and the healers bunched more closely together for protection behind them.The elves ran on with renewed urgency, the pace putting some strain on the more seriously hurt of the walking wounded.Helped and supported by their comrades, they set their teeth and ran on, although some faces grew white with pain.Boromir's shoulder and chest ached with a dull throb, but it seemed a distant thing as his vision swooped and altered, as if he saw through other eyes at the same time as his own.Haldir now had the arm of an injured elf and urged him on with soft encouragement a few paces from Boromir's side.Celeborn's hand slipped under Boromir's elbow to clasp it lightly, guiding him forward wordlessly, though in his head the man felt rather than heard the warm assurance that they would very shortly reach safety.

Soon, from the tree-line ahead of them, grey clad figures emerged, coming forward to assist them.They replaced the tired stretcher-bearers, and took injured and exhausted elves beneath the shoulders, one each side, helping to guide their now stumbling feet.Once inside the trees, the host came swiftly to the make-shift camp that had been set up in advance knowing they came with injured among them.The exhausted elves slumped gratefully to the ground, and eagerly accepted the hot drinks and food that had been prepared for them.Celeborn and Haldir went immediately to the wind-banner shielded area, wherewardens and messengers gathered to give their reports and receive instructions.Maps were already laid out on a camp-table; depositions were discussed and agreed upon while food and drinks were bought to them quietly and without ceremony.

A couple of canvas cots were set up there, should the lords have time for rest. Celeborn guided Boromir to one and signalled he should be served with food.Boromir took the beaker of hot tea and the bowl ofstew with polite diffidence, but the elf serving him had to place a spoon in his hand and encourage him to eat as if he were a reluctant child, reminding him to take another mouthful when he paused, eyes focused into the distance.The man mildly did as he was bid with the detached demeanour of one who walks in their sleep, neither fully awake, nor unconscious.The elf at his side took his heavy boots and leathers off and made sure he finished the food; then, at the Marchwarden's instruction, helped Boromir to lie down and draped a light blanket over him.The man's eyes drooped half closed, but even then he did not sleep, for his mind followed maps of a strange country that he knew well. Thoughts came to him unbidden of 'defensive emplacements', 'positioning troops', 'arranging for scouts and look-outs' – these things he could easily comprehend; they rolled through his mind as he lay on the cot… but also stood at the table, his captains clustered around him.

Warm and comfortable now, he felt he half-dozed, but a thought kept coming back to disturb him.He mulled over the strange topography of the map in his mind, half seeing the actual places as trees and rocky outcrops and a long, tumbling silver stream…Then he realised - a look-out on that northern tip would be invisible to the one looking for his signal to the south-west. Time would be wasted, even lives lost - he should be placed higher, a riskier position, but one of more use…Boromir rose from the cot, and glided to the knot of elves clustered around the table.

"There," he said in perfect Sindarin, pointing to the map."The look-outs need to move higher, or their signal will not be seen… here."His finger ghosted over the parchment and stopped at the extreme western border among the foothills above the confluence of the Nimrodel.The elves were silent; each looking at the other, until at last Haldir spoke.

"He is correct, lord.The ice brought down a large fall of rock with it several winters ago; it has been a nagging thought in my mind that I couldn't at first recall. The many great boulders lie piled high, filling a rock shelf here," he pointed."For the scouts in the west to see them, the lookout should indeed be higher…"

Lord Celeborn nodded slowly, turning to Haldir with a half-smile and a raised eyebrow.

"It seems our lordling channels both of us!" he said softly, before turning back to his captains."See it done, tell the scouts to position themselves higher, but send extra warriors with them in case they have to fight their way back to us.But, if the force that comes is too great – make sure they know they must retreat north and cross the mountains to Imladris.They can shelter there and tell Master Elrond of our fate."

One of the wardens bowed his head in acknowledgement and hurried out to give instructions for the altered deployment.

After they were left alone, Lord Celeborn watched Boromir, sitting on the edge of the cot near to where he and Haldir sat shoulder to shoulder.

"And what shall we do with you, little lord?" murmured Celeborn aloud.

For a moment, the flash in his eyes gave notice of the old Boromir's presence.

"You'll let me fight with you!" the man said.

Celeborn and Haldir glanced at each other, and then back at Boromir.

"Mellon, are you able?"Haldir said gently.

"Try me and see!" declared Boromir, standing at once, cocksure, hands to hips and chin high, every inch again the proud son of the Steward of Gondor.

But at once he felt the calming touch of Celeborn's thoughts come to him, even if there was a hidden vein of amusement behind them, and his demeanour relaxed.

"Sit down, Boromir; you will have chance enough to prove yourself, if that is what you wish," he said with an approving smile.

Bormir sat slowly back down on the cot, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands with an audible sigh.There was a silence only broken by the muffled sounds of the tents and accoutrements of the camp being packed away to be moved, and the low, liquid sound of Sindarin as the elves called instructions to one another or the ripple of occasional laughter.Boromir found himself listening without surprise that he understood them, knew what was happening and, if asked, could have explained what was going on out there.When he looked up, Haldir had turned his back towards Celeborn, who was still seated at his side, but the elf-lord now expertly massaged the knots out of the marchwarden's shoulders and neck – Boromir could almost hear the purr of pleasure from the elf, indeed, he almost felt the sensation himself, not so much consciously, but he was aware of touching…

Celeborn looked at Boromir without pausing in his ministrations, "You are returning to us, I think… but do you know who you are?"

Boromir blinked slowly, frowning, before he finally spoke, "I… am a warrior… My father fought, though now he is more concerned with state… My people are warriors… but they do not seem to fight among the trees as we do…"His voice trailed away before he frowned again and asked."Are these old memories of Eregion, or of tales of Nagothrond, perhaps?

"No," said Celeborn quietly, "Those are not your memories… they are mine…"

Boromir considered this, "But I am a warrior – I know how to wield a sword, string a bow…"

"Indeed," Celeborn interrupted him, "But do you know your name?"

There was a significant pause, during which Lord Celeborn's hands were still upon his marchwarden's shoulders, and both elves watched the man intently.

"I… am… my name is…"His head sank into his hands again."I am tired."

"Sleep, then.Rest, and do not dwell on these questions."

Boromir lay on his side on the canvas cot.He half watched, half-felt the muscular shoulders under his hands before he leant back and his marchwarden leant back against him, the two sharing the one cot.A voice in his head suggested 'sleep', and he drifted into warm, comfortable unconsciousness, but before he slipped completely away, he mumbled aloud:

"Celebmir… I am Celebmir…"


	23. Call to Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

It was some hours later that he was shaken gently awake by the elf who had tended him earlier."Come, we are readying to depart."

Boromir nodded and sat up, the light blanket he'd been covered with falling away to his lap.He stretched cramped shoulders, wincing a little as his chest pulled at the scars, making him hold his shoulder and rotate it more circumspectly, a grimace on his face.

"Let me see the wounds," said the elf, "Pull your shirt up carefully, so as not to open them."

Boromir did so, allowing the elf to see first his back. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Tasarion."

Bormir nodded, sitting quietly while Tasarion probed the muscles of his back and shoulder; with skilled fingers he traced the healing flesh.

"Good; now, turn for me."

Boromir did so, pulling his shirt over his head.Tasarion cocked his head to one side and gave a slight smile before he carried on his explorations; now taking Boromir's arm and raising it and pushing it, asking if he felt any pain.Only the most extreme twists gave him anything more than small discomfort.

"They heal well.And how do you feel?"Tasarion looked him straight in the eye, studying the man's face carefully as he thought for a moment before he replied.

"I feel much better.But… everything seems… removed from me… like…" he faded into silence, ducking his head.

Tasarion touched his arm, clasping it gently, "There is no shame, lord.You have been very ill, very near to departing, so my Lord Celeborn said.To feel… confused…is not something that should trouble you over much."

Boromir nodded without speaking, idly noting that Tasarion lived up to his name – 'Willow' – He was indeed very slender under his heavy travelling tunic, with narrow shoulders and long-fingered supple hands.Although he bore no weapons, he had calloused pads on his fore-fingers and thumb, '…an archer, then…'Boromir thought idly.

"I'm to be your guide.I've bought water and clothes, but I've no fresh shirt for you – we travel light, and you are broader in the shoulder than most…"Tasarion let the remark fade into a grin as he turned away and began to take the other now vacant camp-cot apart.

Boromir crouched by the large bowl on the floor and splashed water over his face and chest, lathering the soap onto a cloth and rubbing the sleep from his body. 'White flowers and sandalwood…' he knew that scent…Tasarion offered to wash his back and he passed the cloth to him.The elf's touch was deft and quick.Boromir felt better for the tepid water; he dressed putting his shirt and boots back on before Tasarion helped him with his leathers.

"Where is Lord Celeborn?" asked Boromir.

"He breaks his fast before we leave."

"Yet it's still night?"Boromir suddenly realised he could see, perhaps not as clearly as one part of him thought he should… but he could see, even though only Ithil and the stars lit the camp.Before he could voice his question 'why', a group of elves appeared at a run from the trees beyond the camp to the north; the leaders shouted for Lord Celeborn.Elves pointed the way and they charged on urgently.Boromir followed, Tasarion behind him.

The running elves had found their lord; "Yrch!" blurted the leader, "A mighty army.They approach from the north and east in full war-gear!"

Celeborn and the other captains shot to their feet.Celeborn barked orders, every sign of the gentle, wise elf subsumed under the new guise of commander – but Boromir knew this was no novice.This was a seasoned warrior organising his troops with speed and efficiency. His captains were given orders to pass on; some healers were dispatched to take their charges deep into the woods and make their way by secret paths to Caras Galadhon the best they could.Others were ordered to take the essentials of their craft and come with the warriors to the northern borders. If the messages were right, they would have much work to do.

Boromir felt a thrill unlooked for roll through him, ' _Battle_ _!_ 'He grinned, a feral smile of anticipation.Haldir caught sight of him beyond the hurrying mass of elves preparing to make a hasty departure; he came over to them. 

"Tasarion, go with the healers and take Lord Boromir with you…"

"No!" shouted Boromir emphatically, "I fight!"

Haldir paused, lips pressed together, not used to being defied.Just then Lord Celeborn saw them; his eyes flashed silver and walked quickly towards them.Grabbing Boromir's arm, heswung him around to face him.The elf stared down into the man's eyes for long moments; and the man's gaze never wavered from the brilliant silver of the elf-lord's eyes.Celeborn eventually relaxed; he nodded to himself, put his two hands on either side of Boromir's head, took a breath and covered the man's mouth with his own.He exhaled a long slow breath into Boromir's mouth, the man's eyes fluttering closed as he inhaled. The next breath they breathed together one from the other, until Celeborn dropped his hands away.Boromir staggered, but Tasarion was there to catch him before the man opened his eyes fully.He put his own hands to his temples momentarily.

"My lady…" he muttered, and shook his head as if to clear his vision.Then he stopped, paused, and looked up at Lord Celeborn."I am Celebmir, and I am yours to command, my lord."

Tasarion frowned a little and looked to Lord Celeborn questioningly.Celeborn shook his head, raising a hand to silence questions."Keep him with you, and take your position at the rear with the archers.He will fire a bow with the best of them," he added, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Celebmir… if you will fight, you will fight under my orders.We need bows as much as swords and spears to keep back the evil tide that Sauron has loosed on us.Do as I bid – you are not under orders or stricture, but you must do as I ask!"

Boromir nodded slowly.He did not know completely who he was – but he could remember fighting orcs; he could remember it was yrch arrows that had pierced his chest.In a sudden burst of clarity he not only remembered the dark-haired man with grey eyes who had been his companion, but he also remembered the face of the golden-haired man who had so anxiously sworn an oath of fealty to him. The golden-haired man had tears in his eyes before he let their joined hands go, before he had walked away with slumped shoulders.Just for a moment it was if a mist had cleared and suddenly he could see his surroundings clearly; then just as suddenly a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. He reeled, having to keep himself upright with will alone, before Tasarion grabbed his arm and guided him back to lean against a cart.

Lord Celeborn looked at Tasarion, "Find him a suitable bow, keep towards the rear and if things go ill… guide him back the best you can."Then he turned and strode away.

Haldir touched Tasarion's arm, "He will want to fight hard – the _adan_ burns bright – but don't forget - he is only a man."

Tasarion nodded, "Both of us will shoot true!"

"Haldir!" said Boromir as the elf turned to go, "I will fight – my hand on it!"

Haldir looked at the man's outstretched hand before taking it in the warrior's grip, hand to wrist."It is not how you fight… it may be how you die…"

They stood for a moment, hands clasped.

 

"The ways to Mandos are many, but I don't intend treading that path yet awhile!"said Boromir with a wry grin.

Haldir smiled, "No… neither do I!"Then he too strode away, soon disappearing into the trees.

Tasarion called for the bow-master to find a suitable weapon for the man, and a long, light bow, along with a thumb guard to strap to his hand quickly appeared.Half the archers had already left by the time Boromir had strapped the leather to his hand and picked up his share of the grey-feathered arrows.He set off after Tasarion at a steady jog, heading north-east under the moon's light to battle.


	24. Lorien besieged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The heavy _dub-dub-dub_ of the battle drums thrummed through the ground even before they reached the northern borders.The tramp of marching feet and the baleful rhythm of axe-shafts and war-hammers beating on wood and hide shields jarred the very air.The orcs were confident, they were many; they would crush the White-faces – drink their blood and smash their bones to dust.They would torch their precious trees and piss on the hot ashes!They lurched forward in a dark flood of rage and bile, eager for slashing, stabbing, skewering, tearing, ripping asunder with their bare hands…

The pale arrows whistled through the air, falling like rods of white rain from the black night sky.Many looked up instinctively and paid for it with shafts in eyes and throats and gaping mouths.Harsh screams sounded louder than banging axes; the drums beat louder and re-doubled the rhythm as the commanders urged the slavering snarling mass forward towards the trees.

Another fusillade of arrows filled the sky. This time the canny put up their shields to ward off death, but death came straight at them, arrows fired straight and low from the base of the trees. The mob howled as they writhed, some falling dead, others dragging the agonising pale steel from their flesh.Maddened, enraged beyond thought, the nearest orcs screamed and charged through the hail of deadly arrows towards the trees.Many of them fell, their bodies becoming obstacles to those behind, who either leaped over or slumped across them, pierced by elven arrows, soaking the ground with black blood. The heaped bodies became barriers to shelter behind from the assault of whistling, death-dealing arrows.

A second wave of orcs driven forward by whips and screamed curses ran at the bleeding, twitching piles of bodies.Some paused to gather booty along the way: a better axe, a shinier helmet, a piece of armour tugged from a not quite life-less body that could be swiftly dispatched with the thrust and twist of a jagged blade… or a head taken in hand and wrenched round till the spine snapped… Still the hated grey-feathered arrows flew – but they must have less now… surely?

Behind the second wave, the third were archers; they had plenty of shelter to hide behind now.They could kneel behind the dead and dying and shoot again and again into the trees – shoot enough and something will be hit, accuracy was a bonus because the poisons would kill if they found a vein, or suppurate to weaken and kill later if they merely grazed the victim.But even then, they were not safe.The white-fiends had climbed into the trees and rained arrows down onto them. Those that survived, fled; but when they reached the main body of the army they were beaten and whipped to force them back to the attack.Many sloped back, but slowly and drifting westwards away from the main body of the defending elves, hoping to find easier pickings where the lines of the battling host must be thinner.

The reserve of orcs, held back with difficulty, stamped and roared defiance, clashing their weapons and shields, poisoning the night with foul curses and threats.Squads of archers were again sent forward. These had tarred arrows bound with cloth and pitch that they ignited from flaming torches and sent hurtling into the trees.Some concentrated their fire together and shrieked with delight to hear cries of pain as trees caught fire and burned the elves trapped among the branches.

The will to press forward their advantage was strong, for malice pushed them on as much as the whips and flails of their captains.Those out of arrows stood and loped forward, yelling as they drew knives and great, jagged blades to take the hated elves at close-quarters.As they surged towards the trees, a silver trumpet sounded, and a double line of mail-clad elves stood, stepped out and whirled long shafted halberds into position.The stumbling orcs fell before them, mown down by sweeping silver blades that rapidly shone black with bloody wetness.More orcs poured forward and the line of elves wavered but did not break, even though some of them fell beneath the cruel blades of the orcs.

The hail of elven arrows was sparser now; some elves darted forward in an attempt to reclaim arrows from the ground and the nearest bodies.Lurking archers targeted them and not a few were shot before another trumpet call signalled them to withdraw.The orcs attacking the line of armoured elves was faltering; the Pale-fiends were grim and tireless, sweeping, thrusting with their long swords and slender, curved-bladed lances.They gleamed with white light and dazzled orc eyes more accustomed to darkness. The orcs began to fall-back before them.

Haldir's arm swung and parried almost mechanically; he ached from neck to wrist, his fingers stiff from gripping, his muscles burning with the effort of clashing against shields and splitting bodies.Again and again – sight the target, thrust and slash, on to the next… and the next kept appearing, howling faces, ferocious screaming maws with evil fangs and slavering jaws… kill it, dispatch it, look for another… 

He barely felt a blade slide down his shield-arm until moments afterwards when its owner fell beneath his feet causing him to stumble, then the scalding throb of a wound in his left shoulder made him hiss with pain – it had pierced him and the slide was the withdrawal.He gritted his teeth, controlled his rage and used the anger to fend off exhaustion.He couldn't see Celeborn and the centre brigade of elves, an outcrop of burning trees masked his view.He tried to block out their screaming as the bark blazed and flames licked along their branches, turning the scene before him into a lurid nightmare of flickering orange light over ravening, howling faces.Time had stopped having meaning, its passage only measured by the swinging arc of his blade. 

Boromir pulled his bowstring, aimed at the massed orcs, loosed; pulled another arrow from the ground in front of him, pulled, aimed, loosed… he felt like he had been doing this forever.His shoulder was numb, and the scars and muscles of his chest protested each movement that sent stabbing, scalding pain through him.Tasarion, standing at his side sent arrows soaring into the screaming horde far more swiftly than he did.The elf kept up a low growl of foul curses that would have withered the flesh off an orc in their own right.He darted forward and pulled the quiver free from a fallen elf, dead with a black arrow through his throat.Tasarion renewed his low, spectacular curses, making each of the dead elf's arrows count.

 

 

The orc force to their right was engaged hand to hand with a force of mailed elves led by Haldir. Beyond them trees burned and writhed before they fell, crashing to the ground amid enormous showers of livid sparks.To their left, the live orcs were fewer in numbers, but the dead ones piled high gave them places to shelter and loose off thick-shafted arrows.An elf on Boromir's other side cried out and stumbled to the ground, an ugly arrow in his thigh.He tried to stagger up but failed, his breath coming in strangled gasps and choking grunts as the pain ran through him.Tasarion leapt behind Boromir and stooped to the elf now shuddering on the ground.

"Poison!" he hissed.

Tasarion broke off the feathered shaft and pushed the dart out through the elf's leg, ignoring his guttural scream.A healer dashed forward, slapped a pad of cloth on the wound and tied it quickly before hooking his arm under the injured elf's shoulder and hauling him up.Tasarion clapped him on the arm and the elf nodded his thanks though his face was twisted with pain and hobbled back from the line aided by the healer.Boromir had moved forward and had sent as many arrows as he could into the nearest concentration of orcs to prevent them drawing their bows against them.

 

A crude horn blew a several short blasts and the orcs fell back, slowly to begin with, but with increasing speed they as they ran back into the night,until only the dead and near-dead littered the blood-stained ground in front of the trees.Boromir swayed a little, then sank to his knees, dropping forward to support himself on his hands, his head drooping, his breathing hard.He was utterly spent.

It was several minutes before Tasarion came to him, patting his shoulder and urging him to stand, then helping him back some yards and leaving him leaning against a tree.Boromir found his legs wouldn't hold him and he sank slowly to the ground, his hands shaking as he tried to unbuckle the leather hand guard. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the groans and guttural curses, cut short by the elves finishing off the night's work with dispassionate knives.When the area around him was quiet he opened his eyes to the green dawn that began to lighten the sky before the sun rose.Tasarion came back to his side and dropped down to sit beside him.They sat in silence for a few moments.

"Are you well?" asked the elf.

Boromir nodded.

"Good." said Tasarion.

Elves walked by them, some helping injured comrades.

"We should go," said Tasarion.

Boromir nodded slowly.

"Give me your hand." Tasarion was on his feet, hand outstretched.Boromir gripped it and pulled himself up, grimacing with the pain of doing so.

"Are you sure you are well?"

Boromir nodded again, too tired to speak.

"Come," said the elf, "the healers will not be far away"

He led Boromir deeper in to the sheltering woods of Lorien.They past carnage and burning, averting their eyes from the bloody carcasses of orcs.Tasarion paused, obviously torn between wanting to help the injured elves and his duty to his charge.His indecision was halted, Haldir appeared, black-stained sword still naked in his hand, eyes still hot with rage, though he carefully schooled his face to neutrality as he directed the wardens.

"Tasarion – take Lord Boromir…"

He was interrupted by a knife lunging upwards, the last desperate thrust of a wounded orc.With one swinging slash and a snarl he decapitated the orc, its blade skimming harmlessly across his leather buff-coat.

"My lord… you are injured…"

"As are many!You have your charge to care for – do your duty!"

The Marchwarden turned on his heel, radiating controlled fury _'…that Lorien itself was besieged.'_ His rage against the attackers was palpable, audible in the cracking of his voice as he snapped orders and instructions, his eyes everywhere.

"I feel we are dismissed," murmured Boromir ruefully with a wan smile.

Tasarion inclined his head, grabbing Boromir by the waist as the man stumbled.He bit his lip as a stab of pain lanced through his chest.Tasrion saw his face.

"Perhaps we should go… I do not think I choose to gainsay the Marchwarden while he's in this mood."

"No – he reminds me of my father on a bad… day…"Boromir's voice trailed away.

The thought had almost been clear, almost… but the face he conjured in memory floated and fused until he could not recognise the angry figure – and now he was too tired to try…As Tasarion turned their backs to the smouldering fires and guided him towards the healer's tents.


	25. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

They found the healer's camp after a short walk; already it was filled with the wounded, and to one side the row of blanket-covered forms was lengthening.The healers were sombre faced as they went about their business.Elves that normally tended the animals in the garths and clearings of western Lorien made themselves indispensable by acting as litter-bearers.They helped exhausted warriors to sit, passed out water and flasks of _miruvor_ , helped undo buckles to remove mail coats from fatigue-numbed bodies, and sometimes just sat quietly in companionship beside a warrior whose life-comrade had fallen to the orc's onslaught.All had been warriors in the past,and would be again when they decided to take up bow and knife once more – though that choice looked to be coming to them sooner rather than later.

Tasarion found Boromir a quiet spot under an oak tree a little way away from the main group of elves.He helped the man ease to the ground before slumping down beside him.There they sat in silence,seemingly oblivious of each other and their surroundings.Tasarion propped his folded arms on his bent knees and rested his head on them.Boromir leant back against the tree, eyes unfocussed, his gaze wandering from the treetops to the group of his Galadhrim sitting gathering their thoughts, regaining their breath, and back again to the leaves against the rapidly lightening sky.He was tired, tired beyond coherent thought.His shoulders ached, his head throbbed dully and he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but too many thoughts chased themselves through his mind: he was concerned for the injured, mourned for the dead, needed to plan for what may lie ahead, was enraged that the _yrch_ had burned his trees… and where was Haldir?The last thought came strongly to the fore.

Behind all these were fleeting, unclear visions of other places, Caras Galadhon viewed from a high place, the eastern land and the dead orcs strewn around their borders beyond the reach of the trees…Boromir let the impressions pour through him, helpless to stop them, not entirely able to understand them all, but knowing above all that they must prepare – this would not be all that Mordor could muster. This was but a probe to their strength.

He saw Haldir nearby outside the Healers' tents, supervising the injured being brought in for aid.Boromir felt one part of his heart leap and he gasped aloud, starting forward.Tasarion lifted his head sharply to look at him.As quickly as the deluge of love, relief, distress at seeing blood staining Haldir's sleeve came,it passed, fading rapidly along with the jumble of alien thoughts.It happened so suddenly that Boromir felt alone, abandoned and exposed… while a small part of him was roused to anger that he was being ridiculous to feel bereft!A gentle glow of calm washed through him then, reassurance that there was no cause for alarm and he was not alone…He sank back against the tree, his suddenly rapid breathing slowing to normal. Tasarion continued to stare at him until a passing helper stopped to offer them water and ask what they needed.

Boromir's limbs felt leaden as he reached for the water-bag.From across the glade he saw Haldir's head jerk up, then turn to seek him out before he slowly nodded acknowledgement.Boromir began to shiver.After the exertion of the battle, his sweat-drenched clothing felt clammy; increasingly shivers raked his body in spasms.Tasarion frowned, pushed himself to his feet, and after givingBoromir's shoulder a clasp of encouragement, he moved off stiffly towards the centre of the camp where the assisting galadhrim had prepared hearths for heating water.He returned shortly with horn beakers of hot tea; he had to fold Boromir's fingers around his cup, his fingers had become so stiff with the unaccustomed movements of drawing a bow, and now with cold.As Tasarion knelt in front of Boromir chaffing his other hand, Haldir approached them, a cloak over his arm.

"Well?" he said.

"He's chilled.The battles excertion's… He is still not whole."

Haldir nodded. He proffered the cloak.

"Cover him in this – and sit behind and wrap your arms around him.Your body heat will help warm him."

__

"Me?" gasped Tasarion.

Haldir cocked one eyebrow. "He will not bite you!"He said, before he swept away.

Somewhat reluctantly, Tasarion shuffled behind Boromir so that the man rested between his legs and leant back against his body.He encouraged the man to finish his tea as he drank his own, and then pulled the cloak around them.Some nearby elves cast curious glances in his direction and Tasarion reddened a little under their gaze before studiously ignoring them.He shrugged the cloak closer about them and leant back against the bole of the tree; Boromir's weighty solidness heavy upon his chest.The man sighed; his shivering grown less after the hot drink and the elf's warmth at his back. His head dropped back against Tasarion's shoulder and he drifted into exhausted sleep. 

The elf was young, barely six hundred years old, he had rarely seen a man before, and then only at a distance; to be so close was… disturbing.He could smell the man, a strong unfamiliar scent of sharp muskiness. After a short while his nose adjusted to and it seemed more like sun-warmed leaf-mould by the river… but there was also something animal to the scent… Horse?Not entirely.Maybe there was a touch of the dairy?…Dog?No, not so much - a wet dog smelt more strongly… but… fire-warmed cat's fur by the hearth?In the end, he could not define it and decided that the warm-sour-sweet-earthiness was simply… Man. 

Haldir glanced across the glade and nodded to himself approvingly; the young elf was sunk in reverie and his charge leant against him, mouth slightly open, fast asleep.Boromir shifted his weight and Tasarion moved to accommodate him, their combined warmth beneath the comforting shelter of the cloak increasing their lethargy.The elf sank deeper into reverie, his own tiredness finally getting the better of him.

When Boromir woke, the sun was high.His sudden stirring roused Tasarion from his reverie.Boromir blinked and stretched.The activity around them in the glade was less, but from beyond the trees to where they had battled, they could hear both singing and elven curses, and the rhythmic thud of spades hitting the ground.Graves were being dug for the fallen.Further off, orc corpses were piled for burning, for no galadhrim would even consider burying carrion-eating _yrch_ in Lothlorien's soil. 

The man struggled up; the elf rose more nimbly, but still a little stiffly from being under the sleeping man's weight.They made for the cooks' tents and were given beakers of tea and day old bread with cheese, which they took to the far edge of the hearths were some of the injured sat.One sat head bowed, silent tears falling in large drops to drip and stain his leggings with dark wetness.His pale hair was streaked with dried blood, but the torn gore-stained tunic he clutched to his chest in his hands was evidence that his grief was not for himself.Another elf, one who by his garb had not fought, sat close beside him, occasionally speaking very quietly into his ear.Eventually the weeping elf allowed the tunic to be removed from his grip; another swiftly spirited it away to be disposed of.The distraught elf was about to protest but the other wrapped him in his arms and rocked him, holding him fast,and he subsided against him with barely audible sobs.

The grief was too much for Boromir, who hurriedly rose and moved away.Tasarion followed, for he'd been charged not to let Boromir out of his sight.They sat facing in the opposite direction, looking towards the trees of the forest; thin sun-light shafted down between the trunks in pale golden beams that made the woods look suffused with mist.They finished their break-fast in silence.

"Will…Will the elf recover?"Boromir finally said.

"Probably – with the help of his comrades.Maybe the one with him will become his life-companion and fight at his side..."Tasarion hesitated, not sure if Boromir understood the ramifications of such a joining.

The man nodded."I'm glad he will not be alone."

The silence continued.

"I had a… companion, once… I think," Boromir frowned before he went on, "If I were lost to him… I'd want him to find another…"But Boromir could not bring himself to say the words 'to love'.

Tasarion nodded, "I have not found such a partner; perhaps one day.But your companion still lives…"

Boromir swung round to him, "Mine…?"

"Yes – the Golden-haired One. I was told that he had to go to the aid of his father and king.He left Fangorn to go south the morning before we travelled north…"

"My companion…?"

Tasarion touched Boromir's arm in sympathy, "Is he not still in your heart…?"

"My… he has light hair, but… he is here…No…"

Boromir struggled to clear his thoughts and regain memories of a face to put with the pale shining hair, but the face was haughty… and elven.It could not be his life-partner, but it was, and he knew they had loved passionately with unswerving devotion for...  '…so long!He had not been alive so long!'

 

Boromir shook his head in confusion.He knew he had sworn an oath.  He remembered… someone holding his two hands between theirs and… and there had been tears on his cheeks, and a fall of wild, golden hair… and a bearded chin! …He just could not see the face clearly, not at all - and that unnerved him. 


	26. A Welcome Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The Galadhrim buried their dead.They lit fires beneath the huge piles of orc corpses outside of their wooded borders, then most of them set off for the city of the trees to make preparations for the attack they were certain was coming.This first direct assault was to try them, Lord Celeborn suspected; the next would be a greater struggle. They would empty Dol Guldur in their efforts to break the might of Lorien. He knew that, as did his Lady; it was their combined power that kept the Golden Wood safe. Now that power would be sorely put to the test.

He agreed Haldir should lead a party to strengthen the western borders where the elves had been evacuated to the safety of the Wood, and to see what numbers could be spared from the farming garths to defend the eastern border. By this time the orcs had swung around the entire northern edge of Lorien, probing and attacking, firing barns and killing livestock, ever drifting westwards when they were denied easy entry to his land. The next force though, would be more concentrated, designed to punch a hole in their defences… at least, if Celeborn were planning an attack… that is what he would do…

Celeborn was reluctant to have Haldir away from him at such an important time, but as Marchwarden and second only to Lord Celeborn, the task needed his authority to decide which garths should be defended… and which might be left to be over-run and destroyed, for the sake of defending Caras Galadhon.Celeborn could not shy away from the fact – they would be out-numbered, and while he did not doubt the courage and strength of his people to fight until none were left standing, he had seen too many times the terrible power that the Dark Lord could summon to his will.There had been too many defeats to ignore the possibility of another, or at the very least… a victory won with hard sacrifice!But he hated Haldir being away from him and at risk.It was a situation he avoided whenever he could and fretted over when he could not; this time, however, he needed to make judgements and decisions that were free from any emotional resonance. His mind must be clear and his heart unhampered by worries or doubt… 

Boromir and Tasarion were in the escort of Lord Celeborn, moving ahead of the main party. The one thing that the man was glad about was escaping the stench of the burning corpses.The foul oily smoke drifted into the trees, and the vile stink made him want to vomit.Lord Celeborn gave him his own scarf to wrap around his nose and mouth before they left; it held the strong, clean scent of bergamot and beneath it the odour of green herbs, wood and earth.Lord Celeborn wrapped another pale grey scarf around his own face, pulled from inside his tunic.Boromir caught a tiny whiff of the familiar perfumes of sandalwood and white flowers – enough to recognise that that scarf must originally have belonged to Haldir.

Almost at the same moment he caught a memory of pushing pale, silky hair that smelt of sweet-wood and white flowers away from a strong neck so that he could kiss a warm upturned throat… and for a moment the power of that flash of desire made his loins jolt in response, before the recollection passed, but he was left with a residual memory of running his fingers through thick, heavy hair - wild with knots from being wind-blown after a day's ride. Tasarion tugged his sleeve and he started guiltily as he became aware of his surroundings once again.The elves strode out of the clearing, Lord Celeborn at their head, and it was his place to go with them now.

They walked fast, travelling virtually without a break, until the mighty trees of the Galadhrim's city came into sight.Boromir kept up with them with encouragement from Tasarion, but it was a hard march for him.The party made an even swifter pace when they reached the smoothness of outer stone road that circled the city to the only bridge crossing the deep fosse surrounding the hill.It was evening by the time they entered the Great Gates, Boromir near to stumbling over his own feet. Lord Celeborn paused to tell Tasarion that the two of them should follow at their own pace now, while he went on ahead.The young elf nodded, and the others sped away.He slowed Boromir to a comfortable walk and after they had climbed half way up the steeply winding path, they stopped for water and for rest.

By the time they had reached the central grove of _mellyrn_ they could see that preparation had already begun – captains and messengers hurried up and down the great stair, grim-faced and urgent.The two climbed slowly and when they reached Celeborn's chamber were met by a chamberlain who told Tasarion that accommodation was ready for them on the _flet_ above in Lord Celeborn's personal quarters and they should wait there; refreshments were already laid ready and beds prepared… then the elf hurried off ahead of them.Tasarion escorted Boromir on up the great encircling flight of stairs, slightly in awe himself as these were spaces he himself had never been invited to enter.The chamberlain leading them was impatient for them to follow more quickly.Boromir was breathing hard when they finally reached the appointed _flet_ ; their guide vanished down the stairs immediately on errands of his own.

The room may have been a dressing room previously, screened from the larger rooms next door by finely carved panels of pale wood; scuffs on the polished floor showed other furniture had been removed.Two beds filled much of the space, and a table and two chairs stood at one side by a gracefully arched window.A tray on the table held wine, water and plates of cold meat and vegetables dressed in fragrant savoury oil; at its side, bread and some sweet-cakes lay under a white cloth.The elf urged Boromir to sit and poured him a goblet of wine, watering it half and half.He helped the man out of his heavy leathers and took off his boots, then served them both with food.They ate hungrily and in near silence…

"Will you rest awhile?" asked Tasarion when they had finished.

Boromir nodded.It felt foolish to sleep his time away, but he found he tired easily and after the fast pace of their march to the city and the long climb his legs ached with fatigue.

"We will not be disturbed here. You might as well undress completely, then we can see about water for washing when you wake, and fresh small clothes and a shirt for you."

"Shall you stay?"

"I will sit and wait until you have slept.The chamberlain has left some volumes; I shall read those.Rest as long as you care to."

Boromir stretched his arms and flexed cramped shoulders before he began to unlace his shirt and trews.Tasarion took up a volume of verse and discreetly devoted his attention to it while the man undressed, but since the room was small… he could not help but watch out of the corner of his eye, and besides… he was curious, for he had never seen a naked man before. The rumours he'd heard about their 'endowments' were indeed true!The wide shoulders, long well-muscled back, the muscular thighs thickly covered with hair, well-defined firm buttocks and … Tasarion forced his attention back to the pages and the line he'd read five times already…

Boromir lay down on his back and drew the fine, wool-stuffed quilt up to his waist, sighing with relief as his head found the comfortable feather pillow.He glanced across to where Tasarion was already deeply engrossed in his book. Boromir wriggled into a comfortable position, smiling with contentment as he closed his eyes.Tasarion meanwhile was trying hard to erase the vision of taut stomach muscles trailed with fine hair that became thick, dark curls surrounding a manhood that was intriguingly substantial, even when flaccid, above a heavy sac of dark, red skin. Again he read the same line of poetry, and began to think that perhaps a bath in some cold water might be a good idea!

Boromir was woken by the sound of water pouring into metal, repeated bucketsful by the sound of it… in the room next door!He blinked awake in the darkened room and sat up to investigate.Finding his clothes had been removed, he wrapped the quilt about his waist.He pushed the panels experimentally and found one that gave access to the room next door, where Tasarion and another elf were organising hot water to fill a large metal hip-bath, brought up via a mechanism of shelves and pulleys inside a wooden column that obviously connected to premises lower down the great tree.The bathroom was well-equipped; two polished wooden wash-stands beneath elegantly carved framed mirrors held basins and ewers, jars and covered dishes that must contain soap and pomades at their sides, and piles of flat-woven towels on the shelf beneath.

"These are Lord Celeborn's private quarters," Tasarion explained, "He thought you would be more comfortable here than using the general facilities below."

Boromir nodded, glancing around the panelled room evidently designed for total privacy.There were no windows here, but lamps lit the room with a pleasant glow.Having filled the hip-bath with sufficient water to bathe in comfortably, the other elf inclined his head and left them.Boromir stood without moving, slightly hesitant, still looking around.

Tasarion cleared his throat."Lord Celeborn's rooms are beyond this door.Here…"He opened another panelled door onto a small room containing a closed bench, "… is the earth-closet… after you have finished, close the lid and turn the handle – the earth will fall automatically…"He mumbled his explanation, not entirely sure if the man was familiar with the concept of indoor… um… arrangements."I'll… er… leave you to bathe, and I shall be next door.Your clothes are being cleaned, but they've left fresh ones for you here."

Boromir saw a neatly folded pile of clothing on a bench against the wall. He nodded his thanks as Tasarion withdrew hastily.Boromir was not as much of himself to be angered at the insinuation that he was crude enough to be ignorant of indoor plumbing… but he was grateful to avail himself of the earth-closet without having to walk down the stairs!The warm water of the hip-bath allowed him to wash himself thoroughly, which was a pleasure, but his newly healing scars and the repeated strain of firing a bow made reaching his back, and lifting the rinsing-pail to sluice his hair painful.

"Tasarion…" he called. "Tasarion…"

The elf opened the inner door a crack.

"Will you help me wash my back?"

The elf hesitated.

"And I can't pour water over my head properly…"

The elf came in, accepted the proffered wash-cloth and made a swift job of rubbing soap into Boromir's back, taking care not to put pressure on the pink skin of the rapidly improving wounds.He hesitated before kneeling, dipping the cloth repeatedly in the water and sluicing the man free of soap.

"My hair…?"

Tasarion dutifully poured cleansing oil into his hands and massaged it into Boromir's hair with his fingertips, very slowly working it up into lather with firm, circular strokes that caressed his scalp.

Boromir, eyes closed, sighed with contentment."You do that wonderfully well..."

The elf's hands froze for a moment, "Oh… It is a custom… everyone does…Put your head back."

He filled the small wooden pail and tipped it over Boromir's head, shielding the water from the man's face with his other hand.

"There – finished."

Boromir opened his eyes, stretching lazily with contentment before standing up in the hip-bath. Tasarion held out a towel to him, and then quickly departed, leaving Boromir slightly puzzled as to why the elf had left in such haste. '…Was he that distasteful to look at?' He dried himself quickly and dressed in the elvish garments laid out for him. 

When he re-entered their sleeping room fully dressed, Tasarion greeted him with a smile that, if Boromir's perceptions had not been a little blunted, he would have read as 'relief'!

"Shall I show you around the city – although it is dark, now?" asked Tasarion.

"I know my way," Boromir frowned a little, wondering why he should be asked if he knew the city, then continued, "Do you know the numbers of the muster yet?" 

Now it was Tasarion's turn to be puzzled."No – I am not a captain, only a marchwarden…"

Boromir cocked his head to one side, considering, before replying.

"We should find out.Where is Lord Celeborn?"

"In the Great Chamber – but we…"

"He will not mind us joining him."

The man smiled and strode to the door, leaving the young elf open-mouthed to trail in his wake.


	27. Questions Still Unanswered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The elf-lord studied the maps on the table before him, consulting with his captains as to possible areas of vulnerability in their defences, and the speed at which warriors might be re-directed at need to reinforce those at the point of attack.Most of the garths had been emptied; the dairy cattle and fowl bought to pens inside the clearings of the golden wood, but many of the flocks had probably been sacrificed to the orcs by leaving them in the fields.The Walnut Garth was strongest, based around three huge trees in the middle of the walnut groves; it was well defended, though the force was not great.Apple Garth was the largest, the oak grove that supported the dwelling-flets at the centre of its orchards also retained a force of elves; the nearby garths of Cherry, Plum and Almond had been evacuated completely.The outlying Pear and Hazel garths were yet to be reported on… 

Boromir was admitted to the Great Chamber by one of doorwardens. Lord Celeborn was not within sight immediately, but Boromir walked unerringly in his direction, to an alcove at the far end of the enormous room.The elf-lord looked up before the man reached him.They stared at each other without speaking for a few moments.

"You are welcome to stay.Tasarion, my chamberlain has brought refreshments; perhaps you could fetch some for us?"

Celeborn nodded to the side of the room were an elf with an air of bustling authority was organising half a dozen other galadhrim to fill and dispense beakers of hot teas of various sorts.At his nod, the two other captains at the table withdrew a little way; Celeborn beckoned Boromir to him.

"Doubtless you have many questions…?"

"I am… sometimes confused by what I see, places I know that somehow seem a little strange.Sometimes I stumble in waking dreams… at least, that is what they feel like."

Celeborn nodded slowly "I hope we will have time to talk at greater length later, in the meantime, is their anything you would ask of me?"

Boromir considered his words, "At times… I am you… and then it is 'we' that that plan, that see my land's enemies...At different times I catch glimpses of the others you know intimately, and although I do not see their minds… I know… we… you do… and yet, I am not as they are, as you are… I am… different."Boromir trailed off in confusion. "How can this be?" he finally whispered, half to himself.

Celeborn laid his hands lightly on the man's shoulders, speaking gently as one would explain a problem to a child."You have been a part of me, your _fea_ was ready to flee from you and I caught it and took it into my own – you slept within my _fea_.To keep your body, some of my spirit entered yours, and some residue remains within you still.You were so badly wounded… there was no other way."

Boromir faced the elf-lord in rapt attention struggling to understand, finally murmuring,

"Why me…?"

"My Lady saw in you a role not yet fulfilled.She would say no more than there was some great importance that she sensed.She saw in her mirror a coming peril, and we agreed Haldir should travel to warn the Horselord of your plight…Ah…" Celeborn looked deep into his eyes, "… you do not see him in your thoughts."

Boromir shook his head. "I have restless dreams, that I do not understand… but I should understand them.I try… and I did go to someone… to him… Yes!I did… and then the haze became worse… and there were dark things creeping at the edges of my vision…"Boromir stifled a shudder.

Celeborn gripped his shoulders, "You made a valiant effort to save him, your companion, and you did, but in doing so you travelled paths not yours to walk… You drifted farther from your own self… and now… we do not know when you will come back to being… you.Do you know who you are?"

Boromir frowned, "We… are… We are…"A moment of panic entered Boromir's eyes.

"We… that is right, let that be enough for the moment"Celeborn clasped the man to him in a brief hug of comfort before releasing him."Come – look at the maps with me."

In the meantime, Tasarion approached the elf organising the servitors, realising it was the same person that had escorted them to their quarters; he asked for tea for Lord Celeborn.The elf nodded and prepared it himself.Tasarion watched in horrified fascination – for the first time he saw that the elf had two fingers missing from his right hand, which meant…

The chamberlain looked up, "I can no longer fire a bow..."

Tasarion looked down at his feet.

"…But I serve my lord in other ways no less useful."

"My apologies," Tasarion mumbled,

"No need.Do you find your place satisfactory?"

"Yes, very comfortable …"

The chamberlain paused, still considering his house-keeper's role, and Tasarion made his escape carrying the small tray of beakers.

A messenger spattered with mud rushed into the chamber.

"My Lord!My Lord!The Ents…"

And he rushed out a tale of how the Ents had come from Fangorn and Isengard to attack the remaining bands of ravaging orcs.They, not finding any entrance to Lorien, had charged south looking for easy pickings in the Wold of Rohan.There they had been completely annihilated by the Ents, who still enraged from the discovery of Saruman's treachery and the destruction of the Isengard's woods, were not of any mind to give quarter.

Lord Celeborn listened in silence, before nodding approval at what he heard.He asked the messenger some questions about the deposition of his fellows, and were they in their places to be able to send and receive communications swiftly – being assured they were, Celeborn dismissed the elf to find refreshment before he returned to his post in the wood.

Boromir had relaxed and now stood to one side, sipping his tea, watching and listening intently.It was very late when Lord Celeborn decided they had done enough and should take a few hours of rest before continuing again after the sun had risen, when, hopefully, there would perhaps be more information brought back by the scouts and messengers.

Celeborn beckoned and Boromir and Tasarion followed him back to his quarters.As they reached the _flet_ , he pointed that they should go inside without him.

"I want to consider, and if the night is reasonably clear, it would please me to admire the stars."

Brushing aside their offers to accompany him, he took Boromir by the shoulders, turned him and looked squarely into his face.

"Can you tell me of the place of your birth?"

"A city hidden among the trees…" Boromir replied instantly, then paused and furrowed his brow in thought. "…But …it was against the mountains, and there were many levels… I do not think they are the same place."He frowned.

Lord Celeborn clasped his arms and spoke encouragingly."Things will become clearer for you soon.And your name?"

The man smiled, "I am Celebmir.At least… I think I am… but …I believe I used to be called by another name…" he shook his head as if the action would clear his thoughts.

"No matter. Sleep.Tomorrow, it may be good practise for you to exercise your sword arm with some sparring."

"Yes, Lord – my shoulder heals, but the muscles are stiff, and I tire easily."

Celeborn smiled, "Tomorrow then, or rather later today! And when there is time, we will talk again."

Then he left them and continued climbing the stair to the very top-most _flet_ that had clear sight around it in all directions; above him the night-sky remained dull and covered by masses of sullen swirling clouds.Two sentries were posted there, but Lord Celeborn waved away offers that they should leave there posts to give him privacy.Settling himself in his cloak, he faced towards the west; his thoughts were for his Marchwarden at the far border.

The following morning, Boromir rose to find Tasarion already washed and just finishing dressing.The elf fumbled his laces hastily closed as he saw the man's eyes flutter awake.Boromir yawned and murmured, "Don't worry on my account…"meaning the elf need not be concerned about matters of protocol and appearing formally dressed, but Tasarion quickly finished tightening his tunic laces before he turned to face the man.

"There's water for you to wash with, then we'll eat downstairs.The chamberlains are busy…"

Boromir nodded 'of course'.He threw back the covers and stood, stretched, and scratched his stomach absently with both hands as he went through to the wash-room.Tasarion blinked at the sight of the rather more than flaccid member that jutted from the dark curls that trailed up the man's belly.The elf took a deep breath and made a determined effort to banish the sight from his mind… to scarce any avail. 

Washed, dressed and breakfasted, Tasarion, as previously instructed, took Boromir to the sword-masters and left him in their charge. Boromir was fitted with padded armour and a practise sword and found, to one part of him at least, a surprisingly complete knowledge of elven techniques, not only with their long, curved swords, but with their deadly, fine-bladed halberds.His own sword had been cleaned and sharpened, but when brought to him the swing felt a little …alien in his hand at first.But as he practised, first on a dummy and then against one of the sword-masters… he felt his own well-honed skills returning.That they were 'well-honed' he knew without a doubt – it was the precise instances that still remained vague in his mind. 

The day went well; the routine of fight and practise were familiar and his hands knew what they were doing without his having to think about it.He felt better in himself, when he acquitted himself well against the elven warriors – even getting several contests to a draw.He dedicated his waking hours to regaining the strength he knew he had once had.

Tasarion observed him unobtrusively, calling him away to eat or rest briefly when he felt the man was pushing his limits too quickly. But Boromir's time to recuperate was cut short. On the third day, messengers brought tidings from the east – Dol Guldur's army was marching upon them. 


	28. The Second Siege of Lorien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Plans were well under way, positions had been assigned, defences almost all completely in place – the question now was, 'Would it be enough?'Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel did not for one moment underestimate the might of Dol Guldur, or the pitiless spite that would be unleashed on the golden woods of Lothlórien.Far to the south, the mountains shielding Mordor were wreathed in foul smoke belching forth from Mount Doom.Even though that dreadful storm-wrack obscured the skies, Galadriel knew the assault on Minas Tirith had begun.

Sauron chose to strike simultaneously, knowing that without help, Gondor would fall; if Lorien fell too, there would be little left to stop him from claiming Middle-earth.The orcs and goblins of the north would besiege Thranduil in Mirkwood; Imladris would be isolated and cut off, and a campaign of attrition would dwindle those remaining elven forces to nothing more than pockets of futile resistance – pockets that could be crushed at his leisure when he turned the full force of his victorious armies against them… when he had regained his Ring.

It was easy enough to read this from Sauron's thoughts – these were notions of power and malice he was happy to broadcast, to bring his enemies to the brink of despair.Galadriel exerted her own influence within Lothlórien; Melian had taught her the secrets of empowerment and will, and of supporting those within her influence to survive and struggle on with hope in their hearts.Closeted in her glade, she gathered her magic about her, drew on her strength and the strength of Nenya, a power as yet invisible to Sauron, and cast over her realm an all pervasive emanation of fortitude against the threat of duress, and valour and hope to combat the despair that the Dark Lord sought to inflict upon them.

Lord Celeborn, meanwhile, masterminded the assembled elves; he took his position on raised ground under trees that his look-outs climbed to search the horizons.They did not have to strain their eyes to see the huge column of dark filth that crawled across the plain towards them, contaminating the ground with its very presence.The orcs forded the river to the north of Lorien with boats that they lashed together to form floating bridges.Too numerous and too far off to be reachedby fiery arrows, the captains had to bite their lips and watch, since Lord Celeborn would allow none to race out on a suicide mission in an attempt to destroy the bridges.Celeborn calmly received messengers and gave instructions to his captains, dispatching orders and issuing commands.

There was never a good time for battle, and a number of his warriors were already lost and others wounded…Today, he must have faith in his own courage and the courage and valour of those about him.The very young and the vulnerable were hidden in their most protected glades, with instructions that, should things go ill, they should make their way to the mountains and hopefully to Imladris – though many among them carried blades that would take the lives of those with them should they become trapped and all hope lost. Rather become kin-slayer than fall into the hands of Sauron and his evil spawn.All those able to fight had access to weapons.The healers had racks of bows placed near at hand should they be overrun and forced to join the battle; likewise the farmers and animal-keepers who would act as stretcher-bearers had their places to reinforce should the present defenders fall.Every able-bodied elf, male or female, that could pull a bow or wield a knife had a role to perform; from water-carrier to supplier of arrows to reservist should the front-lines fail. They had done their best to prepare.Now they would see if it was sufficient.

 

 

The army of savagery spread itself out in ranks of death-dealing terror, inexorably moving down the west bank of the Anduin to take their position well out of bow-shot of the Galadhrim.But as the army massed behind them, the first-comers were edged nearer and nearer, until a ranging shot from an elf found a mark.The sky hazed with grey-fletched arrows, a cloud of death that descended to pierce necks and thighs and any exposed faces, creating a growing stain of liquid black, as blood seeped across the green fields now humped and strewn with writhing wounded and unmoving corpses.The orc army cared for neither, but marched or stumbled over them, trampling the still living and the dead beneath steel-shod boots.

Siege-weapons were also advanced, pushed by harnessed trolls in spiked collars, great catapults to fling missiles into the woods and the defending ranks of elves.Perhaps what the besiegers had neglected to imagine was that the Galadhrim were capable of constructing such weapons themselves.Soon after the first great grey mists of arrows rippled across the sky, the trebuchet of the elves fired to get their range; launching a fusillade of bombs – stone orbs filled with oil that exploded when they hit the ground, spattering the orcs with liquid that ignited when fire-arrows were aimed at the drenched mass.The front lines wavered but were beaten forward by the whips of their captains, archers were deployed and ugly black arrows found targets.Elves screamed.Elves died.More took their place.

Boromir shivered with fear, with excitement; clad in elven armour hastily altered to fit him, he stood among the warriors of Lord Celeborn's personal guard.Tasarion was among the archers in the trees behind them.From their elevated position he could see much of the rapidly approaching battle.The rising piles of orc corpses were proving advantageous to their archers with their powerful black bows; they were able to shelter behind them – something would have to be done…Celeborn ordered pitch-laden arrows and fire be distributed to the elven archers – they would fire the front line of the orcs.

Barely had the first arrows kindled among the grotesque fuel, than the orc archers shifted, fleeing before the coming onslaught despite the cruel whips of their overseers, but with the press of the army behind them and the elves in front, they could only move sideways, extending the besieger's line.The corpses flamed with an evil stench that reduced several of the defending elves to vomiting, as black, oily smoke rose from the burning flesh and leather.The fires rid the front positions of orc archers, but the heavy, screening smoke allowed the enemy army's own siege engines to be brought up with little opposition.

 

The elves' attention was split to either side of the first encounter by more gathering archers, fresh and fully armed, whose arrival bolstered the wavering orcs, making them stand fast and re-commence shooting into the trees at the unseen elves. Massed arrows will always find targets; both orcs and elves fell beneath the whistling shafts of each side.The ground shuddered as the harnessed trolls lumbered into position, towing the siege-tools.The nearest Elven archers were directed to fire blindly through the smoke in the hope of finding targets, and the screeches and harsh, garbled shouts of the trolls told them they were successful.

Abruptly the dragon's breath whisper of whirling catapult baskets launched fearsome missiles into the woods – hideous and disgusting, the orcs were loading the carcases of their own dead to be flung against the elves.The jagged armour and bleeding body-parts hurtled down, bowling over, or, even worse, impaling the Galadhrim they fell amongst.Screams were mixed with howls of outrage; the watching Elven captains clamoured to be allowed to avenge this degraded attack against them. 

Lord Celeborn would not be swayed by rage and disgust, but he did order that the lines of waiting infantry should advance to attack the siege engines from the sides.The frontal assault, he ordered made with sling-shots of more oil, hoping to destroy the wooden engines with fire.The catapults burned.Some trolls, driven berserk by the searing flames, turned on their own forces and trampled over them in a bid to escape.The first ranks of armoured elves descended with wrathful hearts.Two hundred ran forward, wielding deadly blades to slice and slash their way through the orcs, but it was no easy task.Knowing this fight was to the death made the beasts vicious and gave them the false courage of desperation; they met the attacking elves with hammers of iron, and saw-toothed blades, with fearsome spiked maces, long knives and spears.The carnage was great.Battle-lust bore the avenging elves forward; they scattered the trolls and their masters, but the pressed masses of the lumbering army surrounded them – and none returned again to their golden woods.

Celeborn could only watch with growing rage and biting sorrow as the fires of the orc's arrows made crackling pyres of the trees nearest the borders.He had to steel his heart against the agonized screams of his own kind and order more of them forward to their deaths.Boromir voiced his feelings without restraint; he wept openly, screamed, cursed and begged to be allowed to fight, but Celeborn would have none of it – not yet.

Beyond the Anduin there were no more dark masses waiting to cross: the huge army was here. Celeborn sent singing-arrows in flight, messengers of pre-arranged instruction.From the north, Haldir led a large mounted force across the plain towards the bridgehead, not huge, but enough to move swiftly and strong enough to attack and destroy the virtually unguarded crossing.Celeborn took a risk and sent another force westwards to wait in the hope of turning the orcs and trapping them between a two-sided attack, with a possible third from Haldir's force sniping at their rear.But, to make this move successful, he would have to engage their commander's eye to the front and to a single field of battle. He himself would lead that attack and make himself the prize.A risky strategy, but with huge odds against them, he could not afford to let the enemy wear them down by attrition; he must attack first and make the ferociousness of that attack count!

The archers laid down covering fire with their fast-depleting store of arrows as his armoured warriors marched forward to the brink of the trees.They would attack in three blocks and two waves, seeking to break the front line of the orcs.That done, his flanking troops from the west would sweep in, and Haldir's mounted elves should be able to pick off retreating orcs and put them to flight.Plans were made… plans may go awry… but now it was too late, but to trust in his own strategies.The armoured elves marched forward in disciplined lines bearing lethal steel, and as their pace quickened and their weapons were swung ready for the first strikes, the fell-fire of their wrath entered their faces.

Terrible and beautiful, they shouted as they came, long notes of pure rage, issuing from steel-clad throats, hands wielding shining blades that swung down into the waiting orcs like pitiless scythes among grain.Bright they were, too bright for the orcs to look upon, and those beasts that covered their faces were dead before they hit the ground.Boromir ran forward with the second rank, directly behind Lord Celeborn.He ran forward, screaming unfamiliar battle-cries that his throat already knew.He ran alongside the shining elves and his own face shone from within, as he snarled and slashed and spitted any foul creature within his reach. 

After the first shattering impact the orcs rallied.They attempted to reform into deep ranks, to push forward and overwhelm the shining, deadly elves with sheer force of numbers, but then, unexpectedly, another force of elves attacked their flank.The lines wavered back and forth.Some of the evil spawn had had enough and tried to escape in retreat, but they were forced back by whips and knives turned on them, until some threw spears and brought their own captain down.Those that could, fled, either back the way they had come or along the line of trees that edged the forest.Once beyond the elven attackers from the flank, they might have turned to mount another attack, but orcs being cowardly by nature chose to run on, gathering in small groups to make their escape when they could.

Many of them were brought down by arrows from the trees.Those reserve archers, among them many she-elves, held back to defend the city at the last, but now, seeing where their arrows would find targets, theycame forward to make them count.Several larger groups of orcs made brief stands, firing back, and some females, even companions of the Lady Galadriel, were wounded or killed by thick, black shafts barbed with poison.The Galadhrim's righteous anger spurred them on to revenge their companions, to stand and fight and face the journey to Mandos' Halls if that be their end.

Lord Celeborn flared into a brilliant silver flame, an Elf-lord of old revealed in all his blazing anger. Almost too eager, he ran ahead of his warriors screaming for wrath and for ruin.The orcs ahead of him either fled or died beneath his blade. Blind to any danger, a fell battle-lust was on him and nothing existed beyond death and killing, sending this foul demon seed into oblivion.Few of Dol Guldur's army could stand against him. The last thing the orcs saw was his rictus grin and his dreadful shining eyes, and the last they heard was the whisper of his sweeping sword and his terrible laughter.

But Boromir could see the dangerous gap growing between Celeborn and his warrior. One orc nearly speared Celeborn in the back, but another dying beast fell beneath its feet and unfooted the orc.Boromir raced forward the best he could, grabbing up an axe, throwing at the beast as it took a second aim.The jagged blade caught it square in the back and it dropped to the ground, the spear un-thrown.Lord Celeborn whirled then, to see Boromir flying towards him, and realised the growing gap his path of fury had carved in the orcs' fast disintegrating ranks.Just then, a heavy, iron-shafted quarrel took the elf-lord in the shoulder, spinning him round as he fell beneath its impact.Boromir screamed with rage, not even seeing the two orcs his blade slammed into and through as he ran to stand over Celeborn's prone form.The elf was motionless beneath him.Boromir hacked at orcs, suddenly aware with a pang of grief that the terrible elf was laid low – if he were killed, the battle would be over!The man fought on. 

"To me!" he shouted, "To me!"

The elves of the guard, aware their lord had fallen, renewed their efforts to come to him, their weapons blackened now with gore, spraying black blood with every swinging stroke.

Suddenly, the Lady Galadriel's power was made manifest - the very earth began to rumble beneath the feet of the attacking orcs that were still massed together.The ground shook and shivered, quaking faster and faster until it seemed to soften and they found themselves mired.Many abruptly stopped fighting, struggled to free themselves, dropping their weapons as they sank to knee, to thigh, to waist… trying to flounder out of the deadly quick-sand that had opened beneath them.

Celeborn groaned at Boromir's feet.

"My lord!"Boromir shouted, "Lord Celeborn lives!"

The elves rallied to him, ringing the pair with flashing steel, but the orcs had no stomach for more.They found themselves sucked into the surrounding earth, drowning in the once-solid ground they'd fought across.They clawed at their comrades, shrieking for aid, but few received it, more were frantic to escape the treacherous land and the deadly blades.Those cornered between the new quagmire and the terrible elves with their bared teeth and ferocious swords fought on in desperation, but their spirit, such as it was, was broken. As many as could, fled; those who couldn't fought like trapped rats, and without pity were overcome and slaughtered.

A lone horseman galloped ahead of his cohort through the retreating mass, recklessly driving forward, unerringly heading for the spot where Lord Celeborn had fallen.Boromir knelt inside the encircling elves and grasped Celeborn's shoulders to turn him, the elf muffled a cry, but struggled up with Boromir's aid.The quarrel was lodged in the pauldron of his armour, the black shaft an obscene addition that the elf grabbed and tore away.Celeborn shouted aloud and sank to his knees again, pulling the man down with him.Boromir threw down his sword and scrabbled beneath his own armour to haul out what shirt he could free, hacking at it with a knife until he'd torn a strip to push under the elf's shoulder armour in an effort to staunch the flow of blood

 

"Enough.Help me rise," said the elf-lord.

The horseman leapt from his steed before the animal had fully skittered to a halt.Haldir ignored the remnant of fleeing orcs, his only concern – Celeborn, now upright, but leaning on Boromir's shoulder.Haldir ran through the elven guard to throw his arms round Celeborn with a gasp that could as easily have been pain as pleasure.Celeborn hissed in discomfort and Haldir instantly loosed his hold.

"You must ride away!" he said.

But Celeborn demurred. "I walk from this field in triumph.This is but a scratch the healers can stitch in a minute.Walk with me, though, for I would not stumble on the way," he added softly so only Haldir and Boromir could hear.

They made their way slowly across the field, the guard bolstered by more warriors who came to surround their lord. Halfway back to the safety of the trees, Boromir suddenly sank to his knees, almost falling forward to the ground on his hands.It was fortunate that Haldir had his arm around Celeborn's waist or the elf-lord would have fallen as well.

"Hold!" commanded Celeborn, "Let me see him." 

Haldir sank to one knee allowing Celeborn to kneel beside Boromir. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder.

"What is it?Show me."He spoke gently to the stricken man.

 

Boromir swayed up pushing himself to his knees, his eyes closed, face twisted in pain.In his mind, all he could see was an anguished face, shouting his rage and pain at the sky in the midst of a furious battle, the man's long, tangled hair blowing across his tortured face, spattered with crimson blood…

 

"He hurts," the lord of Gondor murmured, "He hurts so much…"

Celeborn placed a hand behind the man's neck and brought Boromir's forehead to touch his own.

"He fights, but the injuries are not his own…" he murmured."His pain is grief for his loss…" 

They knelt in silence for several moments.The surrounding elves were restive, eager to remove their lord safely from the field, even if the very few remaining orcs had no fight left in them.

"We will ease his pain," murmured Celeborn softly. "We may, between us."

"We remember him… he made us a promise…" whispered Boromir.

"And he will return to fulfil his oath.Come."

Celeborn let the man go and Haldir helped his lord to his feet.Celeborn grimaced.

"On your own…On your own!You should know better!" grumbled Haldir, angry, anxious, relieved…

"It is not much…"

"But it could have been!"Haldir shook his head. 'What might have happened was unthinkable, unthinkable…'

As they neared the trees, healers rushed forward, but Lord Celeborn waved them away to care for the more seriously hurt.Only at Haldir's insistence would he allow his wound to be dressed while the reports came in.Boromir was silent, aware of the sharp discomfort in his own shoulder, but nothing else.Wind-banners had been hastily hung to make curtained areas for discussions and planning.Haldir unbuckled Celeborn's armour, helped by the attendant healer.Celeborn winced, but his attention was on hearing the reports of his captains as to casualties and damage. His chamberlain brought a fresh shirt and tunic, scratching at the fabric to obtain permission to enter.Haldir directed him to enquire after the archer Tasarion, and have him come to them. 

Under the armour, Celeborn's padded leather buff-coat had taken most of the force.The healer efficiently examined the wound, pronounced it un-poisoned and in need of just a few stitches.Haldir handed his lord a flask of _miruvor_ from the healer's basket and insisted his lord took a deep draft, waving away the captains, telling them Lord Celeborn would see them immediately his wound was stitched and refusing to allow the elf-lord to gainsay him.Boromir sat on a bench nearby, one hand pressing his shoulder over the point of the healed wound, eyes unseeing.

__

"The sooner it's done, the sooner you can get on, but I'll not have you bleed to death!"

Haldir's frown brooked no argument.Lord Celeborn smiled and even found a moment to hug his Marchwarden to him and plant a brief kiss on his lips while the healer's back was turned preparing a needle and thread.

"What would I be without you?" Celeborn whispered with a smile.

Haldir was barely mollified, "Do not you ever be so foolhardy again!"

Celeborn shrugged – which made him wince.

Haldir clasped his lord's hand briefly, releasing it as the discretely unobservant healer turned back with cleansing medicine and his needle.

Boromir sat quietly but more aware of his surroundings, one hand still pressing his shoulder. The quarrel had struck Celeborn in much the same place as he had been wounded at Parth Galen.While the healer did his work on Lord Celeborn, Haldir took a pull at the _miruvor_ himself, and then urged Boromir to drink some.The man accepted gratefully, the pain in his chest eased now.Haldir eyed him critically, noting the rents in the sleeves of his buff-coat and a thin line of dark blood right across the thigh, superficial wounds, not enough bleeding to be a cause for concern, but…

Celeborn smothered a smile, as the healer turned, seized Haldir's hand and pulled off the glove to clean the knuckles that Haldir had not noticed were skinned raw, even through his gauntlet.The elf hissed in surprise as water was poured over the scraped and bloody flesh.The astringent cleansing medicine made him yelp as it stung, a sound hastily bitten back as the healer bandaged it tightly.Another discreet scratch at the fabric announced Tasarion's presence.

"Come" said Haldir, "Lord Boromir has some rents to his coat; I'd like you to help the healer check the wounds beneath are of no consequence."

Tasarion turned sharply to Boromir, who looked down at his arms, and seemed surprised to see the cuts in the padded leather. 

"You can stay here; Lord Celeborn and I will be meeting the captains outside before we return to Caras Galadhon. You will accompany us, as before."

Tasarion nodded, aware Boromir was again deemed to be solely in his charge.He turned to the man and began to help him out of the armour and leathers.The slashes across his arms were superficial, deep enough to bleed, but not enough to need stitching.His leggings he refused to have removed; his leg, Boromir assured the healer, he would wash later himself.Tasarion nodded, and the healer left him a small stoppered bottle of the lotion to put on the wounds 'after washing each morning and evening'.

"How do you feel?" ventured Tasarion.

"Well enough.And you?"

Tasarion nodded, not caring to elaborate any further.This was the first pitched battle he had been involved in, the first with major casualties, siege machines that pelted fire and grim death… deaths that at this moment he did not care to recall.He would make his lament later.At present he knew that if he brought the faces of his comrades to mind he would break down to weeping, and was frightened by the thought that he might not be able to stop. 

But Boromir continued, his brow furrowed as he sought to force himself to recall events that seemed to curl like tendrils of mist at the corners of his mind, tangible until one tries to grasp them… then the hand comes away empty…

"…More and more as I fought… I remembered… other battles, battles with men at my side.Now… the memories drift, but there are questions I must put to Lord Celeborn.When there is the opportunity, we must talk…"

The man drifted into silence, lost again in his own thoughts.The Elf sat close by, equally silent, trying not to get lost in his, until he found distraction in listening to the man's deep, regular breathing, and was strangely soothed by the slow rhythm.

Outside, the initial reports coming in were reasonably favourable.They had sustained losses, but not perhaps as bad as they had feared.Fires had been contained, and although many old trees had been destroyed and the area nearest the Anduin ravaged, it could be replanted. Areas where the Lady's magic had turned the earth to sucking quick-sand… the ground had swallowed many orcs.The captain giving this report shrugged – he had not seen the like before and had no idea whether the land would ever regain its wholesomeness.

Celeborn nodded; perhaps the most disturbing news was the estimate of the numbers of orcs that had run away – sufficient to still constitute a large army.He wanted to return to the city for further consultations.Before he departed he left instructions, 'care for the wounded, give rest to those that need it – ignore the orcs, they could be disposed of later.Haldir rounded up some mounts from his troop so that they could return with greater speed, and Lord Celeborn, his Marchwarden, Boromir and Tasarion, along with an escort of elves, returned hastily to the city of trees as night fell.


	29. Tasarion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The ride back was uneventful. The further from the borders they rode, the less impact had been made on the forest: fewer signs of fire, less noxious odours of burning oil, leather and flesh.Only the tents of the healers and the near silent elves carried on stretchers or carts gave a clue to the battle itself, though from many parts of the wood single and multiple voices were raised in laments for the fallen, for the trees, for loss…A few times, a vague odour, a tenuous whiff of an awful, sickly rotting, crossed their path, and that was worst of all.For that came from a distraught elf who had given up all hope, one who in their abject despair would not allow themselves to be helped or healed, but sought to travel to Mandos' Halls of their own volition… they call it 'fading', but that is not the truth of it.Elves rot from the inside out; until there is nothing left but skin over bone, and when the _fea_ has gone that crumbles away to nothing, like dead leaves in a storm.It was a terrible thing.

Lord Celeborn needed to consult not only with his wardens and captains, but also with his Lady, what she had seen and done and what they might yet expect.Dol Guldur was defeated this time, but by no means as yet destroyed.When they reached the Great Chamber, Haldir dispatched young Tasarion to take the gondorian up to the room he and Boromir had used before, telling them to rest, bathe and take some ease.

"Lord Celeborn and I will return later to bathe and take some rest ourselves – we will do our best not to disturb you."He clapped the young elf on the shoulder."You have fought well today, so I'm told.When you choose to make your lament, speak, and you will be released to do so."

Tasarion bowed his head, "Thank you, my lord.At present… I do not have the words…"

Haldir embraced him briefly in a comradely fashion, patted his shoulder, and left the elf to climb wearily up to the next level.

The chamberlain had set a large, closed urn of water over a charcoal brazier in the wash-room, not enough to fill the bath, but plenty to mix with a bucket of cold water and swill over one's self.

"My Lords will retire later; be sure to fill the urn so they may have hot water," he admonished.

"Of course," said Tasarion sharply, irritated that the other think him so boorish as not to take care that there was hot water for others use.

The chamberlain nodded. "I meant him," he said, indicating the man.

Tasarion set his chin. "Lord Boromir is perfectly aware of such etiquette!"

The chamberlain dipped his head. "Your pardon, then; I'll leave you.A tray is on the table for you."

He paused at the door, "If I may suggest…I've left spices and a warming pot; fill it with the red wine and leave it on top of the urn.It will be heated by the time you've bathed. You'll find the hot liquor a benefit to help you relax – both of you."

This time he smiled quickly in a kindly manner, dipping his head before leaving them alone.

 

"Thank you for coming to my defence," said Boromir, "But I'm used to my father's chamberlains.They always treat me like…"He stopped abruptly."My father's chamberlains… my father… and a brother... I have a brother!"

Boromir beamed, the first really joyous smile Tasarion had seen on his face. "I have a brother!"

Then his face fell again, "I'm just not sure where…"

"Come," said Tasarion. "You go and wash – and here…" he dug the stoppered bottle the healer had given him from his pouch."Put some of this on your leg." 

 

Boromir took the bottle, opened it and sniffed; it smelt pungently of strong green herbs and something of quenched iron, maybe… 

"You can join me if you like, there are two basins there…" he said, walking towards the panelled screen.

Tasarion shook his head, "No, no you go ahead - I'll prepare the wine and wash when you are done."

"As it please you…"Boromir was already stripping his tunic off as he walked.

The elf poured wine into the warming pot and mixed the ground spices into it well, then realised he would have to enter the washroom to put it to warm.He scratched the door.

"Come in," called Boromir.

Tasarion went in with the pot.Boromir was stark naked, twisting himself to look down at the back of his thigh.

 

"I don't think it's that bad, what do you say?"

 

Tasarion carefully placed the pot of wine to warm, before he turned to the man facing him, trying not to let his eyes linger on the heavy, torpid penis surrounded by dark curls, hanging ponderously above the wrinkled red sac…He corrected his gaze to the man's thigh, but it was near impossible not to keep looking at… 'Sweet Eru - it swung like a prize bull's!'Tasarion frowned at himself and tried to concentrate.

 

"I can't see how far round it goes…"Bormir shuffled around to present his rear. "Will you look?"

 

The elf leaned down obediently… until Boromir insouciantly turned back again.

Tasarion jerked upright from his stoop, "Not far.Wash the blood away and dabthe lotion on.It's not deep."And made a hasty exit.

The elf could hear splashing water being poured from a height and falling into the metal bath, but he dragged his mind away from what was being washed.He placed food on both the waiting plates, poured beakers of water,drank some, mixed some wine and water and drank that, sorted himself out some fresh leggings and a shirt…by which time Boromir came out, still dripping, barely clad in a towel draped low around his hips.

"There are no clothes…"

"A robe, over the chair…"Tasarion quickly vanished into the washroom with his bundle of fresh clothes."There's food on the table." he called from the other room.

Boromir dropped the towel on the chair and shrugged into the soft grey robe, tying it loosely with the waist cord.He picked up the towel and sat down gratefully, with a sigh, '… _it felt so much better to be clean'_.He scrubbed at his hair with the towel, before draining a beaker of watered wineHe thought he'd wait for Tasarion to rejoin him before he ate; it seemed ill-mannered to start without him.Shortly Tasarion emerged, newly dressed in a long loose shirt that hung to mid-thigh over his fitted leggings.

 

' _That boy really is thin'_ thought Boromir, " _But then… 'boy' must be quite the wrong word for a being of his age!_ '

 

The elf brought out the pot of now pleasantly heated wine and poured beakers for them both.They sat, ate, drank, and Tasarion answered questions about what he had done and seen of the battle, about what numbers he judged to have been routed and where they hadheaded.Boromir filled the beakers again; almost without noticing, the two of them finished a substantial amount of wine, enough to make them both sleepy.Boromir yawned and stretched; his robe opening to reveal his bare torso down to the navel.

"I think I shall sleep now," he said, standing up; the loose robe falling open completely.

Tasarion struggled to keep his eyes on the man's face, "Of course.I shall also rest."

He got up and trimmed the lamps to their lowest setting, so all that remained was a soft glow.He did not need the light, but he had been told to leave them lit for the man's benefit.

Boromir walked the few paces to his bed and let the robe slide down his back. His shoulder was healing well; below it the smooth skin was golden in the lamp-light.As the man threw the robe over the nearby clothes chest, Tasarion again blushed to find himself staring at that tantalising pendulum of flesh, swinging enticingly with each movement. The elf turned and laid himself down quickly on his own bed, throwing the quilt over himself before he wriggled out of his leggings under the covers.They were right, the tales he had heard of men – these beings were dangerously seductive and infuriatingly intriguing!Boromir lay on his back under his quilt, one hand sleepily, but obviously, settling the focus of the elf's attention into a more comfortable position.

From the washroom came a soft murmur of voices, evidently Lord Celeborn and Lord Haldir had returned.The man's breathing deepened rapidly to a slow and regular rhythm.The soft sounds of wash-clothes rubbed over skin drew out into more lingering sweeps and the voices became simply the occasional whisper with long silences broken by poured water and sighs that verged on gentle groans.Soon soft footsteps padded out of the room to the bed-chamber beyond.

Tasraion slipped into reverie that became a warmth… indeed, very warm.Across the short distance between them he could see that Boromir evidently was also too hot.He had thrown back his quilt, and moved feverishly, his back arching, hips writhing gently.One hand slide up over his chest, then down his belly, and back up to catch at his hardened nipples between thumb and finger; he sighed as he pinched the rosy nubs.The other hand lazily stroked himself, fingers lightly ringing the engorged flesh that stood proud, swaying in the air when his hand slowly snaked down to cradle his sac before lingeringly tracing its way back up the thick column of taut, shiny flesh.Tasarion swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away, fearing that he had been observed, but the man's eyes were tight shut.

Boromir groaned with pleasure and sighed, his jaw slack with desire.Tasarion could smell him; smell the thick, warm scent of passion, as heady and sweet as the spiced wine…His palms itched to stroke the man's skin, knead that achingly ripe flesh…He slid from his bed and, amazed at his boldness, was drawn to the gently writhing body like a moth to the flame.And indeed it was like a flame, he could feel the waves of heat given off the man's body; it was as if the warmth radiated and entered his own body.Tasarion gasped and shuddered, the proximity was too much… he had to… touch…

He knelt by the bed and slid a tentative hand down Boromir's chest; the man arched into his touch.He slid his fingertips back up, then down, each time getting nearer to the dark curls, damp with sweat between the man's open thighs.Boromir's hips writhed in anticipation; his hand working the shaft more quickly in response to the elf's lightly caressing touch. Tasarion finally ran his fingers through the curls, down the hot pit of the man's groin to cup the full, heavy sac, lightly kneading the balls within, delighting that it made the man groan and cry out loud, and oooh… he wanted to hear that cry again!

He got up quickly and lightly straddled the man's thighs, keeping himself high, resting on his knees.Desire racing through him, he dropped back to his heels and let it take him.It was as if he could feel hands running up his body, but it felt like they were inside his skin.It was intoxicating; he felt light-headed, but wanted to growl like an animal….Boromir's hands reached for his hips, but he knocked them away and inched back to feast his eyes on the glorious erection in front of him, much thicker than elven-kind, darker, the heavy veins pulsing with lust, with fire…He took it in hand and thrilled to feel it the hot flesh leap under his fingers.A tiny shining pearl of liquid formed in the tip, grew to a droplet that smeared into a shiny coating over the swollen glans.Boromir groaned and muttered, bucking and writhing, his arms stretched above his head as if held there.Tasarion felt an overwhelming desire to lick at the seeping pearl, wanting to taste, to relish…

Tasarion shifted, stooped and the tiny drop of hot, salty liquid was an explosion on his tongue that seared through his body. He lapped, wanting more and Boromir cried out, bucking hard in an effort to push his aching flesh into a willing recipient.Tasarion shook his muddled head, there were others… he could feel their presence at the edge of his mind, feel their desire now coursing through his body as well… He desperately wanted to be part of their love-making, and the passion that had so inflamed the man writhing under him.

 

Tasarion was wet between the legs with it, hot, unbearably hot.The elf took his hands from Boromir's body causing the man to gasp and moan at the sudden absence.He gathered his shirt up and stripped it off, throwing it away, and with the same gesture threw all caution to the wind and scrambled forward on his knees to position Boromir's urgent, quivering cock, between, beneath…

 

Boromir's hands were released. He grabbed the elf's hips, ran his hands up the body, feeling the warm above him, before gripping the slim hips tightly.He bucked upwards seeking gratification… and found soft smooth skin under his hands, slid into hot, silken flesh that parted easily… too easily, to his first eager thrust. 

Tasarion cried out as he filled her.Tasarion was female…

Revelling for the first time in her femaleness, the perfect fit of their bodies, she drew back, her breath ragged, before sinking down slowly onto him again, trying to control the stretching of her body , as he tried to lunge up, to enter her fully.

Her mind fled into the dance of flesh and desire. She could feel Lord Celeborn potent aura, knew he was entwined with and entering his lover at the same time as Boromir was entering her,and the exultant rush of fierce joy made her bare her teeth and growl.Boromir found Lord Celeborn's slow and powerful rhythm, matched it stroke for ever-quickening thrusting stroke.Haldir panted, eyes silver to match his lord's, their thoughts, spirits, bodies in complete communion, radiating their ecstasy,barely aware in their absolute absorption in each other's desire of the coupling mirroring theirs a few feet away.But as Boromir and Tasarion's ardour mounted, it impinged upon the elven lords and they welcomed it into them and let their fire flow back to magnify the others' passionate love-making.

Tasarion arched back, tipping her hips so Boromir sank even further inside her; they both cried out.Waves of pleasure rippled through her.Boromir as Celeborn gasped and thrust again, Tasarion opened eagerly, rolling her hips to take him deeper, Haldir whimpered with desire bucking to accommodate the penetration, gasping… feeling Boromir's ardour within his lord, as his lord was within him… .Tasarion rode Boromir hard, as wave after tingling wave rolled over her, as if summer lightening flashed through her body and she was its only path to earth.Celeborn as Boromir anchored her to him, his hands welded to her hips; he, they, jerked, shuddered, thrust upwards and came within her… and within Haldir; he, they, roared to completion…No, no, not enough, Tasarion threw back her head and thrust her hips again, again, and… all the colours and fires and tastes… shivered through her body in great juddering surges, and she cried out loud .

Boromir gripped her hips and moved with her ever more slowly, until, utterly spent, his hands dropped away to his sides and he lay, eyes closed, boneless, panting deeply as his heartbeat gradually slowed.Tasarion released her grip from his shoulders, sat back and felt him groan beneath her as she shifted from him.Her Lords, Celeborn and Haldir, themselves replete, drifted from her body and mind… leaving the most wonderful calm glow of contentment.She sighed and tumbled off Boromir; he put out a sleepy arm to catch her and while he fell immediately into a deep, deep sleep, she sank into oblivious reverie cradled against his chest.

She came to herself at dawn and realised things would never be the same for her… a life was growing within her.She hadn't willed it, but their combined passion had been too overwhelming.Now there would be a child…She must go to Lady Galadriel at once - after all, it was she who had sent her to Lord Celeborn's guard telling her do as she was bid. 

Unlooked for ideas began to shape her thoughts. Yes, there were other she-elves who were archers in the wardenship, but she had been sent from her troop specifically to join Lord Celeborn's guard at the time when Lord Boromir had been brought back. The more she thought about it, the more she thought that this had been arranged, or foreseen… did it matter which?She grew angry, then pleased that she was chosen, and then confused as to why.Then angry again - the child would be half-elven; yet there was no partnership between them and never would be.Yes, he was fine and noble, a rare man from what she had heard of others… but this was no match of lovers.More like the child was half Lord Celeborn's… it was him she had felt as much as Boromir!More like the Lady had… Tasarion suddenly remembered the close questioning from her when she was first presented many years ago, the private interview after Galadriel had looked in her mirror…

She stopped and drew a sharp breath… if this child was meant to be theirs… then her lords could have it!She would nurture it and with a complete turn of the sun the child would be born, and when it was weaned, she would leave, take the path West…That is, if in all this darkness there would still be a path West to take...She shuddered and felt Boromir stir beneath her.Very quietly she got up, gathered her shirt and leggings and dressed quickly.She would go to the Lady straight away and tell her… but then, in all likelihood the Lady Galadriel already knew!She left on quiet feet, pausing at the door to look back once at the man sleeping soundly on the bed, one arm flung wide to accommodate the partner she knew was not destined to be her.Then she turned and left, and Boromir did not see her ever again. 

The sun dappled the floor when Boromir awoke; aware he'd had the strangest dream,and finding himself sticky with dried fluids.Tasarion had already dressed and gone, he noted, as he ambled to the wash-room to relieve himself and bathe.He heard quiet murmuring from the room beyond and knew that Celeborn and Haldir were also awake.Just as he was about to pour the remains of last night's cold water ready for washing, he heard a polite repeated knock on the outer door of his side of the rooms.

He walked through, grabbing the loose robe as he passed and shrugging into it.As if by magic the chamberlain was at the door with two other elves bearing steaming water, fresh charcoal, shirts, and trays of tea and bread.Boromir stepped back without speaking and the chamberlain and his servitors went swiftly about the business of arranging the wash-water.The chamberlain took fresh shirts and a laden tray through to Lord Celeborn, scratching the inner door of the wash-room, before Celeborn's low, musical voice said 'come!'

It was several minutes before he emerged.During that time the efficient elves had set a tray on the table for Boromir and poured water for him to wash.The chamberlain's face was controlled neutrality when he emerged and told Boromir that his lords said the man should wash first, they would take their turn shortly. The man nodded.

"Is Tasarion up already?"

The chamberlain inclined his head once, "Tasarion has… is elsewhere.My lords will speak to you shortly."

He nodded again to the waiting servitors who left ahead of him.

 

"My lord, your tea?Do not let it get cold.And the healers have suggested you add something from that bottle to your wash-water, just a few drops – for your cuts. You may leave the bottle on the wash-stand for my lords to use also, they said. "

 

He smiled fleetingly, and was gone.

Boromir examined the green glass bottle as he sipped the hot, fragrant tea.He eased the cork out and sniffed – pungent green herbs and something astringent – '… _definitely only a few drops'_ , he thought.

He washed, dressed, and was spreading his bread with butter and soft cheese when he heard water swishing in the room adjacent and knew that Celeborn and Haldir were up and about.To pass the time, he picked up one of the volumes that Tasarion had been so wont to bury himself in, wondering idly where Tasarion had gone.

Part of his dream came back to him. His partner had looked like Tasarion… but had been a woman, yes, definitely a woman.A flood of images flashed across his thoughts: a magnificent elf-maid, queenly, his match in all things… the flashing eyes of an alluring Haradric whore and the cheering men who'd encouraged him to bed her… a tryst in a strange forest glade, that he somehow knew was no more… fresh-faced chamber-maids who were eager but unsatisfying… and finally the strong, much-beloved features of… of…

A yelp and soft oaths from the wash-room disturbed his groping thoughts.

"You are supposed to put it in the water, not neat!" exclaimed a voice, followed by muttered apologies that did not sound especially contrite.

Boromir returned to the elegantly written scroll; he could admire the workmanship, but though he knew he should be able to read the script, the meanings of it escaped him.He felt a rising anxiety cold within him, suddenly replaced with a warming wave of comfort… and he could read the script again.Poetry, it was poetry.

Haldir came through into his room, Celeborn following, now dressed in formal robes again. Boromir stood to greet them.

"You have eaten?Good.I have to meet with the councils today.Haldir will take you with him to the marchwarden's lodgings.Perhaps you can help him with supervising the dispositions."said Lord Celeborn smiling pleasantly, already on his way to the door.

"Certainly, my lord, but what of Tasarion?"

Celeborn paused, glanced at Haldir, who remained studiously enigmatic.

"Tasarion has duties elsewhere "

"Will he be back later?"

"No.Tasarion has a mission of my lady's to fulfil – he will not be coming back at all."

Boromir's face fell a little in surprise. "He gave me no farewell."

Celeborn smiled a little bleakly, "Sometimes swift partings are best. He wishes you well; he wants you to know that, but…"Celeborn pressed his lips together before smiling again; this time the gesture reached his eyes as well.

"Come with us now," he said quietly, and turned and walked ahead.


	30. Arrivals from the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

It was late morning when there was a stir among the elves of the wardenship. Haldir had left Boromir with a group of wardens in the store-room at the base of the lodging's dwelling-tree, gathering and fletching arrows and filling quivers.The job was repetitive but the man quite enjoyed the satisfying working rhythm of devoting his attention to cutting feathers and dipping them in warm pitch before applying and binding them securely.His fingers knew the task and it gave him something solid to focus his thoughts on.A spreading ripple of excitement surged through the warden's glade; voices passed the news from one to another… They were back!

Boromir was jolted from his thoughts; he stood and strode out to join the others who milled excitedly around the three newcomers. Travel-stained and dust-blown, they drank thirstily from proffered flasks.Haldir came forward quickly.

"Gwindor!Greetings, Lindir, Lórindol…Where is Gelmir...?"

The sudden broken look on Gwindor's face said it all.Haldir stepped swiftly in front of him and put his arms around the stricken elf.They stood together mutely, unmoving, as the realization circulated among the assembled elves – Gelmir had fallen. 

Gwindor's voice was a whisper only Haldir could hear.

"He has gone.I had to give him to the river… but first… I… had to send him to Mandos… I had to kill him."There was a long pause before he finally hissed the words,

"Blood eagle!"

Haldir's eyes widened.Gwindor's head sank to rest on the Marchwarden's shoulder.By his look, Lindir and Lórindol knew the question in the Marchwarden's horrified eyes.They simply nodded.Haldir gripped Gwindor tightly, his normally controlled features running the gamut from horror to rage, disgust and back before he composed himself and eased Gwindor from his grip.

"Come.Sit, eat, and give me your report."

Gwindor's head came up again; they met eye to eye and Gwindor nodded – they still had a duty of care to Lorien.He took a deep breath and allowed Haldir to guide him away, the Marchwarden's hand lightly in the small of his back.Haldir turned and beckoned Boromir to follow them.Other elves came forward to relieve Lindir and Lórindol of their packs, to touch their shoulders lightly or embrace them briefly, before they followed Haldir and Gwindor to the Warden's Hall.The work continued, with an added zeal at the news of fresh barbarism.

The word had spread rapidly among the wardens, and the chief among them gathered to hear news of the outer reaches of Lorien that the three had ridden through before reaching the city.Others were aware and hung back, sitting quietly nearby to receive muttered repetitions of what was said among the elves at the long central table. 

"The Cherry Garth is destroyed.The groves are hacked and burning, and the dwelling trees at the centre… they must have had trolls with them – have been uprooted, pushed over and flattened.The Plum Garth also;flocks killed, dead in the pastures, though we did not ride near enough to see the dwellings…"

Haldir nodded, "They had all been moved into the forest here, but they could only bring the breeding animals with them."

"We saw smoke rising from the almond groves, and far beyond, we thought that there was some fighting still at the Apple Garth, but the great oaks did not seem to have suffered…"

"They were well-equipped and many refused to leave their home undefended, even though we counselled them that little relief could be offered if things went badly."

Lórindol smiled, "The elves of Apple Garth were ever a stubborn people…"He met Lindir's eye fondly… his partner hailed from there; Lindir's parents and family were mostly of the apple garth. 

"We passed when the sun was not long up.Is there more news of them?" asked Lindir.

"We think their attackers have slunk off now the sun is high, even though you'd scarce believe it under this dismal cloud.We have lookouts in the highest trees of the forest and they can see no fighting there.But what about the Walnut Garth – did you see anything?"

Lórindol shook his head, "They were hidden by a fold in the land.We saw only the very tops of the trees in the grove.The smoke there might have drifted from the almonds nearby…"

Haldir chewed his lip in thought."The Three Trees form their own fortress and they have a ditch surrounding…The walnut trees there are too big to be brought down by hasty blows – so long as they faced not too great a force, nor one that still besieges them, they should be able to defend themselves… but we should still ride out to check…

"Good!" Gwindor thumped the table emphatically."I would add more notches to my knife!" he snarled.

Haldir looked at him appraisingly.

"I know what you think.But I do not seek my own death – only those I hate more than ever. I _will_ have my revenge!"Gwindor's eyes blazed. Gainsaying him would be a useless task.

"Rest while we gather horses and gear and I seek permission from Lord Celeborn to make the sortie – then you shall join us, if you wish."Haldir replied.He left the table.Gwindor drained his cup and followed him out.Some of the other elves drifted away, while others settled at nearby tables to eat their noonday meal.

Boromir had sat in silence next to Lindir, lost in thought as the elves ate hungrily.Rations had been short on their ride from the south.Lindir pushed a plate of cold meat across to him.

"Do you join us, _adan_?Lindir spoke in Westron.

"Yes, if they'll let me.I'll ride out with you."Boromir replied in Sindarin.

The two elves glanced at each other.

"Lord Boromir will be welcome to ride with us." Lórindol bowed his head courteously.

Boromir returned the bow with a slight smile "That name still sounds strange to my ear. I have thought of myself as Celebmir… but other thoughts begin to crowd my mind.A city of stone, different armour and helms, and…" his voice trailed away.

"Perhaps a face you now recall?" enquired Lindir quietly.

Boromir looked at his plate.

Lindir shifted a little closer to him on the bench that ran the length of the table.He glanced at Lórindol, who nodded in agreement.He reached for the wine-jug and poured them each a beaker, pushing two across to Lindir, who passed one to Boromir.

"Do you know where we have returned from?" he asked.

Boromir accepted the wine and shook his head.

"We escorted another man south, a Rohir, a beautiful man if even we say so, with broad shoulders, and long tawny hair that falls in ripples around his face when he unplaits it.His eyes - the warm blues of summer skies, but they deepen in his passion, his mouth is generous, his nose - a little crooked, maybe an encounter with a horses' skull when he was young?"

Boromir's focussed attention was solely on the elf.

"He has a pale scar through his eyebrow here…" Lindir touched Boromir's face. "…and another here."His fingertip grazed beneath the man's jaw."His shoulder is marked so…" Lindir's finger swirled a pattern across Boromir's shoulder and chest…"…with scars made to show his rank…"

Boromir's hand shook a tiny bit as he replaced the wine beaker on the table without speaking.Lindir continued.

"Across here…" His fingers trailed to Boromir's ribs, "A spear broke three ribs and one shattered bone had to be excised… The wound had fine stitches, a row of tiny ridges pointing down…"

Boromir's eyes glazed as the elf trailed his hand lower until it rested heavily against Boromir's hipbone.

"…and a thumb pushed in the hollow here makes him laugh!"

Boromir bolted upright.If the table had not have been so heavy, the force would have pushed it over.Lindir stood with him, speaking Westron now… relentlessly detailing memories of Théodred's naked body.

"He has white scars high up across the heavy muscles of his thigh, an old burn down his calf to his fine ankles… but his beautiful back is smooth and unmarked…"

"Stop it!" shouted Boromir.

"Though just at the left, below the deep dimples at the juncture of his spine and the ripe swelling of his lovely ar…"

Boromir swung a fist at his tormentor.Easily caught and held by Lindir, who pulled Boromir close to avoid a second blow.

"And he sent you this."He kissed the man full on the lips.

After a moment of lingering, Lindir released him and sat down again. Boromir swayed for a brief instant, stunned, and then sank down like a dumped sack.There was silence in the hall, before the remaining elves contained their curiosity and returned to eating.After a long pause, Boromir spoke,

"I remember him."


	31. Théodred Rides to Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The air whipped across his face, lashing his hair free from its braids, making him squint hard into the wind.Théodred tangled his hands firmly into the stallion's mane, pressed his thighs tightly to the horse's flanks and clung on hard.Strangely, he felt no fear of tumbling to the ground that raced away ever quicker beneath the animal's thundering hooves.This horse would not let his rider fall!The thought made him grin broadly… until windborne dust made him cough.He hunkered down and gingerly freed a hand to try and pull his shirt higher; cursing himself for not thinking to wind the scarf in his pack around him before mounting. He had simply not expected this extraordinary turn of speed – or the tremendous exhilaration!

A few hours later, his legs and fingers were numb, his face sore from wind-burn and his eyes ached from squinting against wind and grit, and… his bladder was becoming very insistent that he dismount – or else!He pulled on the _mearah's_ mane and tried an experimental 'whoa…' that emerged as a mere squawk, his throat and tongue were that dry.He swallowed, worked his mouth and tried again.

"Wind-dream – whoa… stop…"

 

The horse tossed his head and snorted but eased its pace, soon slowing to a canter, a trot and finally walking a little before coming to a complete halt.Théodred almost fell off rather than dismounted; he slumped to his knees as his legs failed to hold him upright.He tried to stand, failed again, and rather than risk something unfortunate… struggled with his numbed fingers to undo the ties of his breeches.Blesséd relief!He sighed deeply as the arc of golden liquid sprayed the tough grass.The horse nickered at the sharp unfamiliar odour and walked a few paces up-wind, fanning his tail before putting his head down to crop the grass.

 

The Rohir, finished now and half smiling with relief, struggled to his feet and staggered around in a circle in an effort to get the feeling back in his feet.After a few steps, pins and needles made him sink to the ground, groaning and rubbing his legs.He lay on his back, stretched his legs and feet to ease them, and gritted his teeth as he tried to wait out the ache nagging at his muscles – all he could hear was the rhythmic ripping of grass as the stallion took his own refreshment.Apart from that there was absolute stillness; the wind nosed around him, the solid earth clung to his back, but there was no sound of a bird, no movement of man nor beast… save himself and the stallion, the world seemed empty.

 

 

He dragged his gaze from the turbulent clouds above him and rolled stiffly onto his side. To the distant south running parallel to his route lay the long range of the White Mountains… and a dense green shadow at their feet…He frowned, then realised what he saw '… the Firien Wood!'That meant… the Mering Stream must be just ahead; he had travelled twenty leagues… '…twenty leagues!'And there was still plenty of day-light left… Théodred regained his feet with an effort; he sighed.In those early days paddling the boat with the indefatigable elves he had still felt the benefit of Lord Celeborn's grace, but now it seemed to be fading a little – 'but still…' he reflected '… I dare say I've strength enough to ride on…'Indeed, Théodred still retained far greater strength and stamina than men who had not received a mighty elf-lord's kiss of grace.

 

 

He judged the stream must be near and decided to stretch cramped muscles and rest his steed by walking to the water that was the Rohan's southern boundary between itself and Gondor.The stone-strewn grassland ahead crested, and beyond and below him he saw the swift stream; slaked now from the rush of snow-melt in the mountains, yet still running clear with what was likely to be an icy chill.It was slower and broader than when it tumbled in a rush through Firien, but this early in the year it ran fleet here, brimming to the edge of its banks.Further on it joined the sluggish, brown waters of the Entwash, making the lower, southerly stream run clearer and more swiftly to the Anduin.Wind-dream scented the water and walked more quickly. Theo patted his flank.

"Smells good, does it?"

His horse reached the water before he did, lowering its head to drink deep.The Rohir knelt nearby, cupping his hands to splash water over his face; he hissed as the coldness stung his burning, wind-chapped cheeks, but it was refreshing.He drank in his turn, filled his water flask and pulled out a packet of _lembas_.He sat on the bank chewing contemplatively; down to his left he could see the occasional glitter of light on the many streams of the Entwash, while well to his right was the green shadow of the Firien – he needed to ride a course that angled towards the mountains.If his father rode to Gondor's aid they would not lengthen their journey by riding out beyond the Great West Road.He must ride towards it, but there was no point in losing time by heading there directly. He must go east and south, his instinct told him, '…as fast as you are able.'

His body when he lay on the ground felt no reverberation; there was no dull thunder that told of thousands of horses on the move… 'No – either the Eorlingas were a day ahead of him… or a day behind…'He bit his lip with a frown; he couldn't take the risk of falling further behind if they had already ridden out to war.If he reached the Grey Wood and there was no sign of many horses having passed, he would wait there for the Riders… but in his heart of heart's he knew that had already passed.

He put aside his food and searched for the finely woven elven scarf in his bag.Perhaps they had guessed the effects of the wind on a rider astride the swiftest steeds of Middle-earth. Lindir had insisted he take it when they had re-packed after the man had had to don Gwindor's spare shirt and small clothes - their own clothes being soaked when they let Gelmir go to the river. Involuntarily Théodred shuddered at the memory of the obscenely ruined body of the elf, his beautiful face twisted in agony before… before…He reminded himself that,what seemed like an age ago, he too had been prepared to cut his lover's throat rather than see and hear him suffer…'Enough!' 

He shook his head and jumped to his feet, startling the horse, which shied a pace sideways at the sudden movement.Theo hushed the animal and picked up a piece of _lembas_ , crumbled it and held it out on the flat of his hand.The stallion sniffed the elven waybread and delicately deigned to accept it, nibbling the crumbs from Theo's palm.Afterwards, the Rohir quickly packed the remainder away along with his water flask.He stood to wind the fine linen scarf tightly about his face – and smiled.It smelt of Lindir, a clean tang of greenness, underlaid with spicy Gillyflowers and fragrant wood. It was only now he recalled that each elf he'd associated closely with had his own distinct odour – Gwindor's clothes had smelt lightly of rich old honey and darkly resinous smoke.There was a universal muskiness when they sweated through exertion… be that fighting or making love… he grinned to himself at that thought… but then there was more to it – be it soap or scented water, though he'd not seen any use the latter – each elf definitely smelt different. He shrugged; such speculation should not detain him now.

He finished wrapping the scarf as he'd seen the Haradric merchants do, when he was in Minas Tirith many years ago; rather clumsier than they did admittedly, but his face was now protected, only his eyes showing through the swathed folds.He slung his pack around his shoulders, clutched a handful of mane and swung himself up onto the stallion's back.Seemingly revived by the water and the _lembas_ , Wind-dream was eager to be off.They forded the stream, the _mearah_ shoulder deep in the chill waters.Shortly they were galloping full speed over the rugged plain that was now Anórien, the Sun-land, heading east towards the rolling clouds above Mordor.

The leagues were eaten up by Wind-dream's hooves; hour after hour he galloped, swifter than any horse Théodred had ever ridden – Prince of Horses both of them.Glancing to his right, Théo saw the beacon mountains rise and then fall behind them: distant Calenhad, then Minrimmon, Erelas…Nardol neared as the light dimmed into evening.Théodred was exhausted.They had stopped once, shared _lembas_ and water; Theo had stretched the cramp from his fingers and back and rubbed the circulation back into his legs and feet before re-mounting and galloping onwards.They were riding the Great West Road now and from the spoor and hoof-prints left behind, a great many warriors had passed this way not more than a day before.

 

 

 

He marvelled at how far he had come and how quickly, but, he noted worriedly, he was still a day behind.He could see from the horse's gait of the later riders over the churned earth that they too had galloped as fast as they might.He nodded to himself; he must push away troubling thoughts, his worries about Boromir, anxieties for his recent travelling companions, and his guilt that he was not already in his rightful place, where he should be if the Mark rode to war - at his father's side.He must ride on with all speed.Wind-dream was still strong and willing. Steeling himself, Théodred swung back up onto the horse's back and they followed the track of the Eorlingas.

It grew darker. At first Théo thought somehow he had lost their tracks when, abruptly, he realised there were no longer recent marks of a host upon the road.He dragged Wind-dream to a halt and re-traced his path.Casting about he found the tell-tale marks – they had taken the route into the overgrown, wooded valley.He frowned, puzzled.Should he follow?He took the opportunity to dismount, sinking gratefully to the soft ground under the trees.Druadan Forest… he shook his head; he had travelled sixty leagues or more!'It was unheard of… but…' …there were still twenty leagues to Minas Tirith.If he took the road he would make faster time than a host of riders riding through the dense woods, even if in distance it was further, and he did not know the route they took.

'…There must be a valley through the mountains, perhaps his father had found a guide among the Rangers of the South?'But he had no guide, and his one advantage was the speed and sure-footedness of the _mearah_ he rode… he would ride on.Another ten leagues should bring him to Amon Dîn; it might be held by the enemy, but he was one rider alone and could slip into the forest to avoid them… so he hoped.

So, as his father, Theoden King camped briefly in the Grey Wood beyond the Stonewain's Valley, Théodred, his son and Marshal, clambered back onto his steed to take the road to catch up to the Riders of the Mark.The night became darker still as he rode.Finally, with Amon Dîn before him, Théodred eventually slid from the stallion's back and walked him into the deeper part of the wood.Having found a thicket he thought beyond prying eyes, he settled himself on the ground, wrapped his cloak tightly about him and fell quickly into exhausted sleep.

It was still dark when he felt hot breath on his face and warm wet lips nibbled at his braids.Théo awoke groggily, but swiftly came alert as memory returned.All was still quiet in the wood.He made hasty ablutions, relieving himself as silently as he could, before sparing a few handfuls of water from his flask to rub the sleep from his eyes and hands.He tugged the last packet of waybread from his pack and found a small bottle of the elves' _miruvor_ tucked at the bottom.He weighed it in his hand, then, making his decision, unstopped the bottle and drank down the lot in one deep draft.

Instantly, his vision flared clear, every dense shadow became merely a shade of night, neither dark nor light, his limbs thrilled and tingled; he took a deep breath filling his lungs to the full.The air smelt of … so many things: the sourness of his own urine, the acrid odour of the bruised leaves he'd slept on, the sweet musky warmth of his strong, but gentle companion, the sweet, fresh green and spicy woods of Lindir and his scarf at his throat… a bare hint of the rich fragrance of old honey from Gwindor's shirt against his skin… and in the distance there was the wood-smoke of camp-fires… whether the Riders or a more sinister encampment he could not tell…

Enlivened, renewed, almost as refreshed as when Lord Celeborn had given him that kiss of grace, Théodred made ready to ride again.It was still dark, just a hint of pre-dawn light in the east… or was it fires that glimmered rosy against the dark clouded sky?This time he would catch up with his father – in the hope that whatever they rode to, he would be there to face it as he should, at the side of his father-king with the spears of the Eorlingas behind them.He skirted to the west of the hill-top to avoid the drifting, unwashed stench that spoke of wildmen or even orcs and headed south towards Minas Tirith.The base of the clouds was reddened above the city… there were fires there.The city was burning. 

 

With much of the night still dark ahead of him, and darkness behind; his thoughts drifted to Boromir, far away to the north – how was he?Where was he?At least, he was sure he was alive.It was his one certainty.He knew, knew in his heart, that if Boromir was dead, then he would feel it, know it, and although there was an ache within him… it was the small, familiar ache of absence from one another, not the dreadful void that he had seen in Gwindor's eyes.

"I made you a promise," he muttered aloud, "I swore to you I'd be with you again… and I shall!Take care, beloved."

And as he rode he made a silent entreaty to whatever forces were listening to allow him to keep his solemn oath. Then he packed those thoughts away in his heart and turned his mind to matters of war.

The true dawn showed him the Riders had passed before him, perhaps only by an hour or two.He urged Wind-dream forward with his knees and followed the trail to a red day of battle. 


	32. A King Falls  The Battle of the Pelennor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 

The distant darkness ahead of him was laced with tiny flickering pin-pricks of yellow light.Sweeping lines of many fires dotted the still far-off fields of the Pelennor, but to one side their blazing was thicker, lighting the lowering clouds.It was above where the final ridge of the mountains fell away to the plains of the Anduin, where lay the City of Stone, mighty Minas Tirith.Théodred frowned.The siege was well-underway.

 

Of a sudden Wind-dream tossed his head, breaking step; the horse sniffed the air and snorted.Now Théo could sense it too… the wind had turned.It came from the south full in their faces; it roiled the heavy clouds and blew them scudding northwards above their heads.There was salt in the wind, the tang of sea-water, even though it was borne up so far overland – it thrilled the senses.Théodred breathed in a great draught, as a thirsty man gulps water; it was heady, intoxicating almost.With all his senses still heightened by the elvish liquor and Lord Celeborn's grace, he felt a sudden sharp pang at the thought of the sea…

 

 

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightening leapt from earth to sky, the coruscating flame illuminating the distant tiers of the city for the briefest time, then a deep, bone-jangling 'boom' rolled over and through the ground.Wind-dream stuttered and reared; the other prince of horses murmured softly without having to think of the words and stroked his mount's neck.Then, a great horn-blast sounded.It rang through the dawning, a sound that made tears start in the Rohir's eyes – his father's horn called!Immediately, the éoreds' battle-music joined the resonating blast, the tumultuous noise of horns blowing rolled through the air like summer thunder. '…They rode!They rode to war!!'

Théodred's heels kicked into Wind-dream's flanks and they were away, galloping down the hard-packed road towards the Rammas Echor, still some miles away.Wind-dream's mane and tail flowed as banners on the wind.Théodred's scarlet horse-tail plume streamed from his helmet above his flying golden braids.He had donned his heavy leather cuirass and pauldrons, strapped on greaves and vambrace, and fixed the plume again to his helm before he'd parted from the elves and mounted the _mearah_ – he would make of himself a fit Prince to ride a horse of royalty.For war… a hauberk and chausses would not go amiss… but his own skill and battle-cunning must suffice, all he could hope for was to gain their lines with all speed.His heart leapt… '…they sang!'More faintly at first than the horn-cry, he could hear the _éored's_ battle-anthems, proud and fierce.As if in response, Wind-dream's head went down as he lengthened his stride into an even wilder gallop.Prince Théodred, Second Marshall of the Mark, clung to the _mearah's_ back crouching low, thighs gripping, hands tangled in the flowing mane.Teeth-bared, eyes flashing,the Princes of Horses rode to war. 

They passed over the Rammas barely slowing, but to avoid the corpses of fallen orcs whose black blood already congealed, staining the earth with dark unwholesome gore under the steadily lightening skies.On they galloped without hinder; Théodred freed his sword, but at the sight of the gleaming white horse and its' rider, the few remaining forces of Mordor cringed back to let him pass, more concerned to save their skins than halt this lone fell warrior with the blazing face.He could see the Host before him, still some distance ahead, spread out into three.He glimpsed green and white fluttering in the rising wind – his father-king's banner was in the centre.

"Take me to him," he whispered in the horse's ear, '…and we are quit.For this battle is mine,not yours."

Nearer, nearer – now he had to swing his sword, but it was difficult without stirrups or a saddle to cradle him on the down-stroke.Reins were of no matter, Wind-dream knew his way, but the momentum of sword-play threatened to unseat Théodred; he was fortunate that the _mearah_ 's speed and nimble hooves avoided major conflicts.To the right ahead of him, the Rohirrim charged among the lines of the siege-engines, slashing and burning; he saw a great wooden tower slowly topple, its' sustaining ropes hacked away, to fall with a huge splintering crash among a mass of the besieging army.To the left, another _éored_ put to flight the reserve force massed behind the first wave of attackers.At least, they fled before the Riders or died under their long spears and bright blades, but when no longer under attack, their leaders halted them with whips and harsh commands, and made them stand.  

 

 

To the fore, the Prince saw a great scarlet banner raised, patched with a black serpent; the drawing of scimitars flashed like sunlight on rain as these troops readied themselves to meet the King's charge.   'Nearly there, nearly…'Théodred swung at the head of a great orc, who raised his barbed axe too late.The Prince's sword cleaved him from shoulder to chest and the heavy body thudded to the ground, but Théodred rode on.He could see a single rider ahead of the main body of the Host; saw him ride brave and fool-hardy, charged with battle-fury, into the centre of the ranks of the Haradrim, aiming at the standard where their chieftain must be standing.The lines erupted with shouts and screams and the clash of metal on metal, as spear met body and sword met scimitar.The standard fell!The great red silk drooped and sprawled to the earth, and many of the scarlet hooded warriors fell with it.He heard the fey laughter of the Éorlingas as they sang paeans to the battle spirits, and his heart joined their joy as a snarl curled his lips into a fell grimace.

 

 

To his left rose a pack of grey-skinned spawn of Mordor. One hurled a net that caught at Wind-dream's hoof, making him stumble and slow his pace.From ahead, an archer loosed a black arrow, but could not hit his target.Théodred ducked his head down as more arrows skimmed the air.The howling pack initially left behind, darted forward as the _mearah_ baulked before the archers.Théodred pressed his knee and heel and twisted round to meet the charging orcs.Wind-dream side-stepped to the man's order and whirled to face them prancing and snorting.The stallion rose with flailing front hooves that cracked one skull like a rotten egg while the Prince's sword took another's head from its shoulders.Again, Wind-dream rose and pawed the air. An orc with a spear attempted to jab the horse's exposed belly and paid for it dearly, his body broken and trampled underfoot, but the spear caught, and blood streaked the white pelt.Théodred swung his blade in great arcs, catching and slicing flesh and bone.Wind-dream, pained and furious, barrelled sideways towards the archers who gave ground and fled before the flashing hooves.One was not quick enough to escape the horse's strong teeth that caught a braid of hair and ripped, almost scalping the orc.Théodred's blade across its' exposed throat cut short its' shrill scream.

Unhampered now, the Prince pressed Wind-dream to turn and turn about, '…no foes were near, but where was his father-king?'Ahead a group of knight's milled in confusion.He saw Guthláf fall, the King's Banner sliding from his hand to the ground in a pool of green on the trampled earthThere, there – a flash of white, a horse on the ground… and lowering to sit atop it… a horror, a beast out of nightmares.Horses around it fled away, carrying the Riders with them, though some few sons of Eorl remained, their bodies inert, bloody and crumpled.To his horror, he recognised them, Herefana's helm he knew, and Herubrand's dark armour…

 

Huge black wings of naked skin stroked the air, a long neck snaked down to a hideous head that, abruptly, fell sideways.He could see a slender mailed figure, one he did not recognise, but who wielded a deadly blade – this knight had felled the beast!Théodred urged Wind-dream to struggle forward, his attention on the contesting figures, but here the armies of Mordor were more densely packed and he had to fight his way among them, slashing and hewing the best he could to clear a slow path.

 

An evil air of seeming darkness surrounded the combatants.A tall figure, huge and threatening, that even at this distance struck a fear in the Prince, rose from the wreck of the stricken beast.Its black robe swirled in tattered ribbons, a glimmering crown of steel topped a space of… nothingness, but two eyes gleamed therein, wicked and cruel with malice. The white horse, Snowmane, rolled away, and there… there was his father, broken and still.The dreadful sight compelled the Prince to stare in frozen anguish.

A barbed axe's mistimed blow, glanced over and off the greave on his shin, but nicked his boot-heel and Wind-dream's flank, drawing another faint line of blood.Frantically Théodred strained to keep his seat, swing at the enemy's attacks and still focus on the conflict ahead.The shrouded figure swung a great black mace at the pale, slender warrior who had cast away his helm and now let his long hair blow free.A venomous cry of hatred matched the blow that shattered the knight's shield and laid him low, but just as the crowned figure leant to strike again… it fell.Collapsed in a flurry of empty fabric, a billow of evil smoke on the wind as a high-pitched wail rose and thinned to vanish in the shuddering air.

Wind-dream pawed to a halt.Théodred leapt away, running to his father's side.A small figure knelt there, a boy, a page it seemed, holding the king's hand, but the face that streamed with tears was no child's.Théo ran to his father's side, flinging himself forward on his knees.

"Father!"

"Théodred…?Théodred… my son, my boy…Oh, you live!"

"Yes, yes my lord, my king – I hastened here as fast as I could…"

"We thought you gone… lost when the folk of the Dwimordene took you…"

"They had me forgo one duty to save another – I would not, would not…"

"Hush… the Lord Aragorn told us of your valour.You saved the Steward's Son… does he yet live?For a black time comes to the Stone Land, and it has need of every sword…"

"Father - He did live, but… now I must hold that on trust only.But you – we must fetch you aid…"

Théoden king raised a hand to grip his son's as he struggled to raise his head.Théo stifled a sob and bent to cradle the old grey head. 

"My son… my son… I go to join my fathers… no, there is no aid now in this world for me.But I go with honour… I felled the black serpent… and I leave a son I feared was lost to me to lead my people…"

A clamour grew around them as the Riders, now masters of their horses again, rode to the king's side.Aghast they were to see Prince Théodred slumped there, his arms about his father's head, his scarlet plume mixed with the king's white hair.Here was a spirit they thought stolen by the Wood-dwellers, but here he was alive, weeping bitter tears as he spoke with quiet urgency in his father's ear.To one side sat the little _holbytla_ , his cheeks wet with grief, his arm cradling one in the other. Around them lay the bodies of dead knights, but there also, fell to look upon, lay the great stinking carcass of a monstrous beast.

 

 

Éomer, Third Marshall, leaped from his saddle; grief-stricken he stood in silence and dismay looking down at his king and his cousin.A knight bent to gather up the king's banner from the dead hand of Guthláf the standard-bearer.King Théoden raised his eyes to see the white horse of the _mearas_ standing patiently behind his son, its flanks streaked with blood, both red and black, while above and beyond, the green silk of his banner rippled in the wind and the white horse there seemed to want to leap away.He smiled.

"My son… my beloved son… returned to me…" He beckoned Éomer forward."I had named my sister-son as heir, since we thought you gone beyond our reckoning, but now…"

Éomer knelt and took the king's hand."I willingly forego that now."

Théoden nodded and smiled, and tried to squeeze his nephew's hand, before letting it go.With an effort he motioned the banner be given to Théodred, and speaking as clearly as he could to those assembled, said.

"Hail, King of the Mark!Ride now to victory.Bid Éowyn farewell." 

 

So died Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel, seventeenth King of the Mark. 

 

The new king cried out loud, one great, keening shout of anguish, embracing his father one last time, as round about them the knights of his guard bent their heads or wept, crying out,

 

"Théoden King! Théoden King!" 

Éomer rose to lay a hand on his cousin's shoulder, but as he cast his eyes around the scene he saw a new grief – and recognised his sister.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!!No!Not you as well!"

He ran to her, flung himself down where she lay still and crumpled, her arm twisted and broken.She was deathly pale, with no signs of life or breath.He wailed his despair: his sister… his king, his father in all but name… this was a tragedy unlooked for, even in a battle so grim.

"What madness is this…?"

As Théodred came to him and caught hold of him, Éomer struggled free, crying out in cold fury, "Death, Death…" 

He hugged his sister to him, weeping into the pale gold of her hair, before, forsaking his grief, he gently laid her body on the ground.He stood and stepped back a pace, 

"Death take us all!" he shouted.

His king-cousin rose and embraced the stricken warrior, holding him close, his body now taut with icy rage.King Théodred cuffed the tears from his cheeks and spoke aloud. 

"Let the knights of his guard bear my father's body from the field and keep him safe from the melee, and my cousin the Lady Éowyn; see no further harm comes to her, nor the others who fell." 

Around them the clamour of battle grew nearer and stronger as reinforcements from the Morgul Vale seethed up the road from Osgiliath.Outnumbered, the Riders of Rohan looked about to see the tide of battle seeming to turn again.Éomer did not stay to hear counsel, he turned and leaped for his horse, his face set with cold fury.He blew a blast of his horn and spurred his mount away; his voice carried clearly over the field, and many of the Rohirrim joined him.

"Death!" he screamed, "Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!" 

The fey mood took Théodred also. If they were to fail against Sauron's might… let them take with them all they could!He looked about him; already his father's knights had taken spear-shafts and cloaks to make a bier to carry him away, setting spears upright around as a fence around the fallen who that could not take with them.Wind-dream tossed his head; the new king went to him.

"Not your battle, but mine now, my friend.I release you with much thanks.Go now and run to fields where you can remain free!"

Wind-dream snorted, dropped his head and pawed the ground three times. Then turning his head, he launched himself away to the north, his mane and tail white banners in the mid morning sun.The new king looked for his father's shield, a spear, and another riderless horse.The nearest stood over the body of Guthláf, his father's standard bearer, faithful to the last.Théodred approached hands out; he caught the gelding and turned its head from its master, stroking its nose and ears.

"Come," he whispered, "You may serve the new king now – and we will avenge the fallen fivefold!"

He signed for a horn to be blown, the king's call, before swinging himself up and settling himself into the unfamiliar saddle. Shield on his arm, the other couching a long spear, he turned to the gathering riders.

"Death!" he shouted, holding aloft his spear.

"Death!" they screamed back.In a tide of flashing blades and long deadly spears they swept southwards to where the foot soldiers of Harad were massed between squadrons of horsemen and a line of huge war-beasts, the _mûmakil_ of the southern lands.

"Death!" they shouted in one voice as they spurred their horses onwards, riding to victory… or the utter ruination of all they knew.


	33. And Another King Rises.  The Battle of the Pelennor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The turmoil of battle raged furiously around the sorrowing horsemen.The clouded skies joined them in anger and grief, raining grey tears that slicked faces already wet from weeping, quenching the fires of the city, turning fitful fury to cold determined rage.

"Death!"The Éorlingas shouted, urging their horses southwards towards the ranks of the Haradrim. "Death!"

From the city, the Prince of Dol Amroth led his knights forth, and with them rode every warrior of Gondor that could find a horse to carry him.They surged out onto the plain, hacking and slashing at those of the dark host of Mordor that dared to stand against them.Many did, and many died.Knights too took injury; one of the Prince's own sons, his second-born, attacked from both sides, killed the one to his right, but not before a lethally curved war-axe broke his shoulder and cracked his ribs, so that he could do no more than rest a useless left arm on the pommel of his saddle.His armour stopped the filthy blade from biting deeply into flesh, but his pace slowed as searing pain flashed through his body.His elder brother rode to his injured side to defend his flank, and so they battled forward side by side, ever at the heels of their father.Ahead of them they encountered a group of Rohirrim, riders surrounding two sets of men carrying rough biers of spear-shafts and cloaks.

"What burden do you bear, Men of Rohan?" shouted Prince Imrahil, reining-in his horse.

"Théoden King" one replied, "He is dead.But Théodred King rides out to avenge him and Éomer Third Marshal with him - see?The scarlet crest and the white?"

"Théodred comes?That is good news indeed!We had heard he was lost on the eastern plains of Rohan along with Boromir of Gondor." 

Prince Imrahil dismounted, his knights forming a guard about them, and went to the old king's side and knelt to do him honour.

"Nay, Lord, he came out of the north like a shining white flame, riding a _mearah_ to his father's side, but sadly too late to defend him from the fell beast – that was left to another," said the Rohir.

"And what of Lord Boromir, is he also with him?" 

The Rohirrim shook their heads."He came alone, Lord, just in time to bid his father a final farewell – and for Théoden King to name him as heir."

 

Imrahil rose, "Boromir lost," he shook his head."This news confirms what Denethor dreaded since his broken horn was found floating on the river in the Galadhrim's cloak – he will take it ill.Your king was a valiant man; carry him back quickly. Do you need more men to bear him?" __

 

"We will not see them desecrated," vowed the bier-carriers.

"Father, look here!" called Erchirion, who cradled his now useless arm, white-faced with pain.Prince Imrahil turned to the other bier.

"A woman?Have even the women of the Rohirrim come to war in our need?"

Erchirion dismounted with an effort, calling to his brother to come help him bind his arm tight to his side.

"Nay!One only, the Lady Éowyn, Lord Éomer's sister.No one knew of her riding until we found her dead.It was she who felled the Black Rider."

Erchirion went to her side, entranced and amazed at the pale beauty of this shield-maiden.With his good hand he reached automatically to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.He looked at her hard."Rohan!She lives – seriously hurt mayhap, but look…"

He held his polished vambrace before her lips and a thin haze of mist sheened the metal.Imrahil strode across to where the two brothers stood.

"Indeed.Get her back to the city! She might yet be saved.Erchirion - you will ride ahead to alert the healers."

"No, Lord!Let one of the lady's kin go…"

"Erchirion – your shoulder is broken, you can barely sit a horse…You need leechcraft yourself." His father touched his good shoulder lightly, speaking softly so only Erchirion and his elder brother, Elphir, could hear.

 

"If things go ill… Faramir is injured, Boromir lost…and I don't trust Denethor to keep his head; he falls into despair.Mithrandir can rally the men of Minas Tirith, but I need someone able to ride to Dol Amroth, to lead our people…"

"But that should be Elphir…!" blurted Erchirion.

Imrahil silenced his second son's protest with his hand."No.You are injured, he is not.Every sword will count here, but I also need a head and heart to ride and lead our folk to whatever shelter may be found.Let them take ship and sale north to Lune, as many as can, and hope the Elves there will shelter them."

"But…"

"No buts, Erchirion.You've proved your valour, but if things go badly – you will be my last hope to care for your sisters and little brother."

He turned on his heel, making for the horse one of his blue-clad swan-knights held by the bridle.

Elphir used his pale scarf and Erchirion's to tether the nerveless arm tight to Erchirion's side.Erchirion gasped under the bindings, trying to muffle his groans, even before his brother tightened the knots.

"Little Brother, nobody doubts your courage… but how can I keep Father from danger and you as well, eh?"Elphir smiled, raising an eyebrow in jest.

Erchirion's scowl became a soft snort of laughter, "You mean, how can he keep you out of trouble, and watch out for me as well!"

The brothers embraced briefly.Prince Imrahil was already mounted and rallying his troop.The bier-bearers lifted their precious burdens and started for the Great Gate of the city, the men-at-arms surrounding them, spears held high, though by now the battle had flowed southward and only small skirmishes barred their way.

"Keep well, keep safe, brother" whispered Erchirion in Elphir's ear.

"You too, Little Fish… and keep that lovely shield-maid safe…"

"Hey… hold hard – I saw her first!"

They grinned at each other and grasped arms, forearm to forearm, a warrior's grip, before they stepped apart.Elphir and another waiting knight heaved Erchirion back into his saddle, but though they tried to do it easily, the jolt made him cry out.Erchirion bit his lips hard and shook his head angrily '…he would be more hindrance than help on the field.'He gathered the reins in his one hand, kicked his horse, and spurred for the gate, overtaking the walkers with the biers.Elphir caught the reins of his own horse that the knight held, leapt up, and kicked to urge the beast on to rejoin his father's troops.

Théodred King, teeth bared in a fell grimace, swung down hard with his sword, every helmed head split asunder jarring his arm, but he scarcely felt it, so much anguish and fury raged through him.At his left Éomer's white plume dipped and rose, as spindrift on a wild sea, now besmirched with dark blood as fountains of black ichor spewed from the men slaughtered and orcs trampled beneath their horses' hooves.Ahead of them, still more serried ranks of the Southrons stood firm, unfought.Théodred raised his sword high and tugged his horse to wheel around, his Riders slowing behind him.He signalled that horns be blown to rally the Éorlingas to him.They blared out over the din of battle, over the screams and shouts of men and the neighing of horses, then on they charged through the foot-soldiers, laying into them right and left. Challenging the Haradric horsemen, the Rohirrim rode them down to ruin. 

Up from beneath the walls rode the horsemen of Gondor: Húrin of Lossarnach, Hirluin of the Green Hills, and from behind came Prince Imrahil with his swan-knights all about him.On they galloped after the Riders of Rohan, whose onslaught had utterly overthrown the first ranks of their enemies.The Rohirrim had smashed through the Southron forces in great wedges, but left enough footmen behind to form square in their own defence.They now were called by blaring trumpets to rally, while the Riders were confronted by a line of great _mûmakil_.At the sight of these huge beasts, their horses baulked and swerved away in fear and few could rein them back.

 

Three times out-numbered, the Rohirrim took their toll of injury as fearsome arrows found their targets in warm flesh.Up from Osgiliath streamed the forces held back for the sack of the city.Ordered now by Gothmog, lieutenant of Morgul, they flung themselves into the fight; Easterlings with axes, Variags of Khand. Some held back, turning westward to face down the forces of Gondor and prevent them coming to the Rohirrims' aid. And whereas once they had carried all before them, now the tide of battle seemed to be turning and a sea of deadly, flashing steal beat at them.

A mighty wind blew the many scarlet gonfalon of Harad, making them flicker like so many forked-tongued snakes.It blew the rain away north, leaving behind the sun to blaze back from sword, helm, shield and cuirass, so many tiny points of shining steel, that from atop the walls of Minas Tirith, it seemed the twinkling stars might have fallen to the ground.But also the watchers from the walls saw beyond the field, down the glittering river, and their hope died within them.Black sails billowed in the wind; many oars dipped and rose either side the great dromunds that plied swiftly up the Anduin.The Corsairs of Umbar had come!

The men of the city shouted in alarm. Some ran to sound bells, to blow on trumpets to sound the retreat 'Back to the walls!' All was clamour and chaos and many openly wept.

Théodred had no need of such alarums.All too well the Rohirrim could see the fleet of black sails straining in the wind; the white-water wake the ships left as they ploughed swiftly through the water.Between the Riders and the Harlond was scarcely a mile of land, but it was covered with a mass of foes, cutting them off from any haven they might have found at the river.Behind, massed the host of Mordor;they too saw the ships beating up river before the wind.Enheartened, they attacked anew, howling for a triumph they knew was theirs to come.

 

Théodred King reined back his horse to rear in the face of his enemy, to break skulls with its flashing hooves at it dropped down.He signalled for the horns to call the Riders to rally to his banner – in his mind he'd decided to make a shield-wall – and if this was the end of the Riders of Rohan… let it be so.They would fight and die to the last man and do deeds that should be commemorated in song… even though they would likely be none left to sing of the passing of the last King of the Mark. 

A small hillock was nearby, long and narrow-topped, and Théodred had his standard set there: the White Horse rippling in the wind.Éomer was at his side, eyes glittering; he too knew that this was the end of them, and he shouted out with fell laughter in his voice:

_ Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising _

___ I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. _

___To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:_

_ Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall! _

Théodred faced him, turning his horse so the two stood thigh to thigh, and grasped his cousin's arm.Both were still unscathed, both fierce warriors of a warrior people – they curled fists and clashed vambraces together with a great shout, then turned their horses about.Éomer held his sword high, laughing in defiance at death.Suddenly with a great whoop, he tossed his blade high in the air.It flashed brilliantly as the sun lined the steel edge before he caught it, whirled it around his head and pointed to the sight he saw on the Anduin.

 

All eyes followed, and behold!On the foremost ship, a huge standard broke free of its wrappings: silver on sable the White Tree blazed, but above the white boughs gleamed Seven Stars, and above them glittered the high crown, the symbols of Elendil, unborne for years beyond counting.The great banner embroidered with _mithril_ and gold flashed brightly, sparks of starlight captured and held by the needle of Arwen. 

So came Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Ellessar, Isildur's heir, out of the Paths of the Dead, borne upon a wind from the Sea to the kingdom of Gondor.

The Rohirrim roared, their swords sang, and blood stained the churned earth beneath their horses' hooves.From the east rode the swan-knights of Dol Amroth; Prince Imrahil and Lord Elphir at their head driving down the Variags and the orcs who hated the sunlight.Théodred rode out, south to meet the ships, his scarlet horse-tail plume streaming and tossing in the sea-wind, and beside his streamed the white of Éomer's; they laughed as they slew.But the enemies before them had no heart for this; caught between hammer and anvil they turned and fled.Some hardier footmen stood where they could, but they were no match for the horses.The brave men of Green Hills came up to fire arrows into the eyes of the _mûmakil,_ blinding them so that they stampeded among their own troops until they were eventually cut down.

At the quays of the Harlond, many men now leaped from the ships and swept up into the rear of the panicking Haradrim: there came Gimli and Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir, Dúnedain, Rangers of the North, leading a great valour of people from Lebennin and Lamedon and the fiefs of the South.At their head was Aragorn and in his hand was Narsil re-forged, the Flame of the West, Andúril leaping in his hand, a fire kindled that none now could quench.A stern king of old seemed to stride before them; a king with the Star of Elendil upon his dark and furrowed brow – few stood to face him, and all those that did died where they fought.

Eventually he stood to face Théodred and Éomer in the midst of a battle that for the moment swirled around them at a distance.They stood and leant on their swords, speechless for a few moments, smiling at each other.Aragorn spoke first, to Éomer:

"We meet again – did I not say so at the Hornburg?"

"So you said, but hope can fail and I didn't know then you had the Sight – Never was a meeting of friends more welcome, or more timely!"

 

Éomer held out his hand.Aragorn clasped it gladly forearm to forearm, and then turned to Théodred.

"Well met, Prince Théodred! You I hoped to see again, but did not think it would be here."

They clasped hands, shaking firmly.

"And Boromir?Does he ride with you?" asked Aragorn, perhaps a shade too eagerly.

Théodred dropped his hand, looking at the ground before looking Aragorn in the eye.

"I've much to tell of what happened after our parting, a tale not suited to idle gossip, but… the last I saw of Boromir he was recovering… at least in body.The Elves of Lorien have him in their care.Their Lord holds him safe… at least he did when I left."

"Lord Celeborn?"Aragorn said in surprise, before lapsing into momentary silence."If he himself cares for Boromir… then there was serious ill…"He looked straight at Théodred, who nodded slowly.Impulsively, Aragorn stepped closer and embraced Théo,

"He will be well," he said quietly in his ear. "You will tell me all later?"

Theo nodded.Aragorn released him and they nodded in understanding.Theo raised his open hand again, and this time Aragorn took the proffered arm in the warrior's grip of brotherhood.

"And what of your father?Where is he?"

Théodred closed his eyes for a moment in remembered pain. It was Éomer who spoke.

"Théoden King fell in battle."

"No!" gasped Aragorn."Did you… were you in time…?"

Théodred nodded slowly, "I was fortunate indeed, but not so lucky as to be there to defend him… that privilege went to another - who also forfeited their life."

Theo put his hand out to Éomer's shoulder; his cousin gripped the pommel of his sword hard and leant hard against it so the point became buried in the earth.

"The Lady Éowyn rode to battle unknown, and though she slew the evil rider of the beast that slew my father, she gave her life to do so."

 

Aragorn gave a great sigh; he plunged the blade of Andúril to stand upright in the soft earth; then closed his eyes and dropped his head, before rousing himself to place his hand on Éomer's shoulder.

 

"That is indeed hard news – for both of you…"

"My Lord!" shouted Halbarad urgently.

 

An orc some feet away, previously feigning death, raised itself to throw a short wicked blade at Aragorn, but the new king swayed back and three white arrows thudded into the orc, returning it to a corpse.

 

"It appears we are not done yet!"Aragorn said with a grim smile.He plucked out his sword, turned again to his horse and leapt into the saddle.The Rohirrim also mounted.

"May we speak more closely later, Prince…"He paused, "Though, I must say 'King' now, I presume…?"

Théodred inclined his head with a grim half-smile, "Let battle spare us both, and we'll have much to tell each other."

And they spurred away back into the fray, for the remaining Southrons were hard men, and fought fiercely in their despair.The Easterlings also were war-hardened and neither gave nor asked for quarter.From burnt barn to broken wall, over hillock and ruined homesteads' fields they fought, and were made to fight every inch of the way until, at last, as the Sun went behind Mindolluin at the day's end, not an enemy was left alive within the compass of the Rammas.

Finally, Aragorn met again with Théodred and Éomer, and as they walked their exhausted horses; Prince Imrahil joined them as they rode towards the Gate of the City.All were weary, beyond thought, arms and bodies numbed with fatigue, minds too filled with harsh scenes to cope with or think about coherently.Finally Imrahil spoke.

"A beautiful woman, your sister, and very valiant…"

Éomer covered his face with one hand, but said nothing.

"…I hope the healers were able to get to her in time to help."

"She was beyond help," said Théodred dully.

"No," Imrahil frowned in puzzlement. "When we sent my son Erchirion from the field to call for aid, she still lived."

"What?" gasped Éomer, "She lives!?"

Clapping spurs to his weary mount, he made it rear in protest before he sped away towards the ruined gates of Minas Tirith.


	34. The Houses of Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

 

The lower levels of the City were still shrouded in a smouldering reek as Aragorn drew near the gates.Théodred would have rushed after his cousin, but Aragorn put out a hand to restrain him.

"We still have much to say.Stay…?"It was a request, not a command.

Théodred hesitated for a moment, but '…what could he do that her brother could not?'He nodded.Aragorn smiled briefly, then looked around.

"Prince Imrahil, I will not enter the City until I am invited by the Steward.It will cause too much unrest for rumours to be rife at this time.I shall pitch my tents here, outside the walls."

Théodred frowned. "You've already raised the banner of the King…Will you have your right challenged?"

"No, but the time's not ripe.I only want to battle the Enemy and his servants, not Lord Denethor as well.

Prince Imrahil nodded. "Denethor's temper can be uncertain, and with his city besieged and partially ruined, his sons vanished, or at the least, mortally injured, a calm head will be best for the first approach.I'll speak to him - but you shouldn't just stay here like a beggar at the gates."

"Not a beggar – say a captain of the Rangers, unused to cities and houses of stone.Anyway, I have to speak with Lo…"Aragorn smiled, "With King Théodred…"

Théodred interrupted with a wave of the hand, "No, don't call me that yet – the title is still too new for me to grasp." 

Aragorn gave a soft laugh, "This is true, for all I have looked to this moment, it does indeed feel strange.Furl the banner for me, Halba..."

Aragorn bit his lip, for a brief moment he had forgotten, it was not Halbarad who held the great black banner now; he had forgotten that yet another dear friend and companion would not be at his side anymore.Elladan nodded in understanding, he took the banner-pole and slowly began to wind the cloth to rest.Silently Aragorn took off the Star of the North Kingdom and handed it to Elrohir.

"Keep these safe for me."

Prince Imrahil reached and touched Aragorn's shoulder lightly."I shall leave you then.Elphir and I wish to see how Erchirion fares; doubtless he won't be that far from your fair cousin – he seemed quite smitten…" Imrahil smiled wanly, "Love and war often go hand in glove."

He urged his horse away, his eldest son at his side, leaving Aragorn and Théodred to dismount stiffly.

The jetsam of battle was already being cleared.Tents were being set up; men from the City brought carts out to collect the injured and move the dead.Some cut-purses were already wandering among the corpses, black crows, slitting throats with the pretence of helping the living, while they helped themselves to whatever they found of value.The   
Rohirs caught one looting a fallen horse-man and their justice was summary.The thief's throat was cut and his body propped up by spears thrust through his sleeves and down his coat and into the ground.His hands had been cut off and hung around his neck as a warning to others.After that, the light-fingered slunk off and confined themselves to the bodies of Southrons.Only the very bravest dared rifle the body of an orc for ornaments of gold or silver… and there were few of them. 

Aragorn sent to find what wardens and sergeants of the guard he could, and had them organise the Gondorians who were fetching the bodies.He also ordered, in an undertone, that after the sun was well set, they were to take down the thief's body and dispose of it quietly.The few hours it would be seen would be enough to warn the dregs of the city, and placate the anger of the Rohirrim.The wardens nodded in grim agreement; they did not know who this dark stranger was, but the deference paid to him by the Men of the Mark and by the dour Rangers was enough to commend him to them as Captain.

Shortly the first make-shift tents were up and field-services arranged to distribute water, ale and bread to the soldiers.Water was set to heat to clean wounds and make tea; from a soldier's view they were of equal necessity. The Dunedain had seen their Captain's tent equipped with benches, table and a mattress first, retrieved from the ruins of a nearby farmstead, and then set up their own accommodations, surrounding and guarding his.Finally Aragorn and Théodred were able to take a little ease in private, the two kings sitting across the table and looking at each other for a moment, neither speaking.A ranger scratched the fabric of the tent before entering with a small candle-lamp and a motley collection of pots and mugs that held hot tea, water, ale and a half-burnt loaf.

"We brought what we could find, lord.There'll be hot food later."

"Thank you, Elurin.Have the others found food and drink?"

Outside, a cheerful roar went up.Elurin grinned.

"Aye, sir, we have – and the Riders have 'commandeered' some barrels from a burnt-out inn above the gates.Seems the cellars weren't touched!"

Théodred and Aragorn looked at each other… and burst out laughing; a good sound in such a time.Théo turned to the departing ranger.

"Tell them to save a mug for me!"

The northman grinned in acknowledgement and lowered the tent-flap behind him.

Aragorn selected a mug of tea and offered one to Theo, who accepted it with a brief nod.They sipped the scalding liquid in silence for a few moments, satisfied to ease tired muscles and rest themselves.The Rohir was aware that the _miruvor's_ effect was beginning to wear off; he began to feel the bruises that would surely patch his body with purple by the morning, but as far as he could tell he had no cuts deep enough to speak of, none that needed a leeches' stitches anyway.But his senses were still heightened; at least, he could see the ranger's face quite clearly even in the dim flickering light.He could smell him too – leather, sweat, the quenched iron of blood… but also something behind that, something elusive… a 'greenness'… as hard to describe as the smell of freshly scythed grass after summer-rain…A couple of deeper sniffs revealed his own smell: musky souring sweat, horse and leather and…

"Struck flint…" said Aragorn, "and meadow hay, all of you do, but there's a touch of almonds about you as well."

 

Théodred's jaw dropped '…how had he known that – and what he'd been thinking?'

 

Aragorn teased a piece of the less burnt crust from the bread.

"I've lived much of my life with elves, and there is still a remnant of elvish blood in my veins – enough to read men well enough to guess their thoughts, and to recognise body scents.I'm not as good at it as the elves are… but then they have a greater difference between theirs than we do.Their smell is part of their identity." He shrugged; it was a simple enough fact - all elves could recognise each other blindfolded, as well as places and buildings, just by smell.

Theo took this in with more sips of tea '…yes, he hadn't really noticed at first, but after he'd left and Lord Celeborn had kissed him… yes, he'd recognised the differences between each of the four elves… '…but only three now', he thought with genuine regret.

"I have only been among them for a brief while… but, it is strange… they are like us yet unlike.At first I thought them heartless, cold as the distant stars… but I have seen them love and seen them grieve… in that they are as we are.In other things…"Théodred shook his head, "Yes, they are a marvel and to learn their senses are far greater than ours… I shouldn't think of it as surprising."

They sipped there tea in companionable silence again, grateful for the respite.Finally Theo spoke:

"I should go and see to my cousins – and my men."

The dull hubbub of voices rose in volume as a song started, an old song of victory that would soon have new verses added to it.

Aragorn sighed."I dare say Mithrandir will be here to see me shortly, but I wanted us to have a chance to speak privately – mayhap there will be little enough time later. I only ask a few moments… please… tell me what happened to Boromir."

Théodred took a breath, propped his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of his chin."It was hard…" he began. "Boromir worsened rapidly after we parted from you…"

With as much directness as he could muster, Théo told the facts of what they had done, their rescue by Haldir, Lord Celeborn saving Boromir, his own injury and recovery in Fangorn ; that he had parted from the man reluctantly, but with the sure knowledge that this was a choice he had to make, and that he had made the right choice to leave him.

"He is still alive," Théo said, "I know it.I sense him sometimes, here and here." He touched his brow and breast."I know he's still with me."

Aragorn looked down at his own hands resting on the table."He was always with you," he said quietly."Yes, we found some comfort with each other, but… his heart was always yours." 

Théodred looked away. This wasn't a confession he wanted to hear, but… the man was honourable enough not to conceal what he knew Théo suspected… and in the past he too had taken comfort where he could… he could not condemn Boromir for doing the same.Théodred nodded…

 

"Onions make him fart like a milch cow," he said, surprising himself with the seemingly inappropriate remark.

 

Aragorn nodded vigorously, "Yes.They do… and camp-greens…"

And all at once they were both roaring with laughter, even if it was harshly enough for Elurin to scratch discreetly at the tent-flap and poke his head through to enquire if they needed anything.Aragorn composed himself enough to smile reassuringly:

"More tea would be welcome." Elurin departed.

Théodred gradually sobered."What will happen to him?"

"Boromir?" Aragorn shook his head, he sighed deeply, considering his reply. "I don't know.Lord Celeborn used an old power, a summoning only the most powerful elf-lords can attempt.The fact that Boromir was not dead… makes it a different matter.I have only heard of the like being attempted twice before, one worked, one… brought back a different _fea_ …"

Theo looked up sharply.

"But they were elves who had passed, not living men.Boromir was held with love and respect, he will not be harmed… but… he may be changed. The truth of the answer is, I don't know!"

The silence lingered between them again, only the sound of the carousing Rohirrim, mixed with a song from the Rangers now, drifted into the tent.

Aragorn sighed again, speaking aloud, as much to himself as to Théodred."I lost a good friend of my youth today, Halbarad.We shared many journeys together… many miles, and many nights under the stars…I will miss him."

The Rohir watched the ranger's face, softened now in memory; he saw how his hands gripped the thick pottery mug more tightly, and in pure impulse he reached across and placed his hand over Aragorn's whitened knuckles.Aragorn smiled wanly. 

"No, don't feel sorry for me.Halbarad loved me, and I could only love him as a boon-companion in return.Yet I believe there's someone in this city I shall have to tell of his death, and that will be hard.They were hand-fasted once, many years ago." He snorted with soft laughter."She always said it was only because that was the nearest either of them could get to me, by hand-fasting each other… she was right.My heart has always been given to my fair Undómiel… but had things been different, had these been other times, I might have found a life as nothing more than a Captain of the Rangers, with a northern wife to berate me and a bloodline to keep…"He broke of with a shake of his head. "At least I won't have to tell her that Boromir is dead." 

"Who would that be?" Theo was puzzled. 

Aragorn eyed him with a quick smile that crinkled his eyes, "A good friend of his," was all he said.

Just then Gandalf swept aside the tent-flap.

"Good, you've found some ale!"He downed a small mug, slammed the pot back down on the table and addressed the new King of Gondor."Come lad, we have work to do!"

Aragorn stood and gathered his grey cloak, Théodred standing up with him.

 

"We should both go and see your cousin, there will be others too, I dare say..."

 

"Yes, there are." Gandalf spoke from the opening of the tent, "We are both needed this night, but you even more than I.And I have grave news to discuss with you – Denethor is dead."

"How?"

"Grievously – by his own hand…"

"He died believing Boromir was lost to him," murmured Aragorn.

Gandalf nodded, "And I dare say that added to his madness…"

"Then I should have gone straight to tell him he still lives!" gasped Théodred.

"No…" Gandalf paused to smile kindly, "Denethor died while the battle still raged.No one could have altered his mind – save perhaps Boromir himself.You could have done nothing, Théodred King; do not grieve on that score."

"We must go now – but we will talk more when we can?"Aragorn offered his open palm to Théo, who grasped it fore-arm to fore-arm, hand to shoulder.

"Yes.When we can."Théo agreed.

Aragorn turned to Gandalf as they walked ahead. "Is she here?"

"She is the Amah, she's always here!She is with Faramir, and he is in sore need of you – an evil dart, the Black Breath, and a great weariness have almost taken him. He hangs on by a thread - and she's not ready to let him go."

"Have you… spoken of me?"Of a sudden, the new king seemed almost sheepish.

"Aragorn son of Arathorn, you think me a complete fool?I've come through battles enough without choosing that one with a temper on her…"But his eyes were laughing as he spoke."She will be as surprised as you were to hear she was here now…"

Théodred, walking behind, heard all, and was curious as to who might possibly be mad enough to risk tangling with a wizard…Then it came to him… 'The Amah! Of course! But…'

Those tales that as youngsters he and Boromir had thought impossibly wild began to make more sense…'It must be her! Amah, the brothers' childhood guardian - she of the mysterious past, survivor of many run-ins with Denethor, suffered to stay only because his solemn promises to his late wife kept him from having her tossed off the ship-wall… according to Boromir!' He had told him that in later years, she'd brought back valuable intelligence from the South, passing it on to Boromir in his inconspicuous visits to the house of an old family retainer.The revelation was what she was, or might have been, to Aragorn.It was then it occurred to him to wonder exactly how old Amah actually was, and what more of her story Boromir had not ever heard…And by that time they were approaching the damaged lanes of the City and his thoughts turned to his cousins and the other injured in the Houses of Healing. It took some while to negotiate the damaged streets strewn with masonry… and worse, before they came to the upper levels.

In the shadows outside the door of the Houses they found Prince Imrahil.

"Mithrandir!There is much bitter hurt here – we should send for Lord Aragorn…"

Aragorn pushed back his hood and stepped forward, the light spilling out from the hall beyond glinting off the green stone he wore on his breast, "I'm here," he said simply,"but here as the Captain of the Dúnedain of Arnor. The Lord of Dol Amroth shall rule the City until Faramir wakes – and each of us should let ourselves be ruled by Gandalf throughout the coming days and our dealings with the Enemy." 

Théodred King and Prince Imrahil nodded agreement.

"Come then," said Gandalf, "for we have much to do here tonight."

In the Houses of Healing the injured were everywhere, crowded into rooms, laid on makeshift beds in the passageways.There seemed no end to them, men, women, even children… some already bandaged and tended to, some newly arrived with only fiends or relations at their side to try and soothe them.The air reeked with sulphur lamps.Braziers for heating water were fuelled with rue and dried lavender as well as charcoal in an effort to cover the soiled smells of the wounded and the dying.Healers bustled between the injured, while from many rooms came groans and whimpers. From the surgeons' chambers, muffled screams made the waiting men shudder.

The herb-masters did all they could, but they had to ration their stores of poppy and only the most grave cases were treated to the fullness of sweet oblivion; most were given sufficient to dull the pain rather than obviate it.Some soldiers had broken into abandoned wine-cellars; they found their own way to seek respite for themselves and their fellows in good brandy and strong wines.One man of Rohan as they passed gazed blearily up in recognition of his Marshall.

"M' Lord," he slurred, "did we win?"

His comrade hushed him, but Théodred paused to speak to the fallen man.

"Aye, we won."

"Good – drink on it."The wounded man waved a half empty bottle of brandy at his king, before he started coughing, which made him groan and hiss in pain.Théodred crouched at his side and took the proffered bottle.The rider's leg was soaked in blood; from thigh to knee his leathers and trews were racked by a great gash from the blow of a battle-axe and his still booted foot turned at an odd angle.Théo lifted the bottle to his lips, his thumb inside the lip, so although he appeared to drink deeply, barely a sip passed into his mouth.He could see the man's leg was broken; unset for much longer and he'd be lucky to sit a horse again.Aragorn crouched at his side; he produced a knife and slit the man's trews, peeling back the sodden cloth as gently as he could.The ranger met Theo's eyes, and he handed the bottle to Aragorn, who took a deep swig before nodding to him.

Théodred gripped the man's shoulders and spoke quietly to his friend, "Hold him fast!"

Aragorn lent forward and sprayed the brandy from his mouth into the length of the bloody wound.The man screamed.The ranger swiftly turned the knee inward, feeling the broken thigh bone crunch together.

"Bandages!" he shouted.A passing woman of the House thrust the wad she was carrying into his hand."Put your hand here and press!" he ordered.She obeyed.

The rohir's screams were cut short as he lost consciousness.The only splint at hand was the man's own sword in its scabbard, so Aragorn swiftly strapped that to the outside of his leg.He rubbed his hands together hard, as if to warm them, then placed his palms over the break, closing his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration.After a short while he relaxed and turned.

"Find a spear-shaft when you can and they will substitute it for the blade, until the healers can stitch the wound and do a better job of bandaging." Aragorn said to the man's friend.

He rose, his hands bloody.The woman silently proffered the hem of her long apron, still tied at her waist.Aragorn hesitated, then nodded at her consideration and wiped his hands clean.On an impulse, she lifted the edge of the hem and wiped his brow with it.Aragorn smiled at the motherly gesture.

"Look after him," he murmured to her before he walked away.

 

Years later, the daughters of a man with a limp would wonder why one of their mother's most cherished possessions, protected in folds of white silk, was an old apron soiled with faded blood-stains.

"Thank you," said Théodred simply.Aragorn dipped his head in silence, hand to breast.

Gandalf led them on down the maze of corridors to where two guards stood outside a solid door, one tall, one the height of a boy.At the sight of Aragorn, the smaller guard cried out, "Strider!You know I guessed it was you in the black ships. But they were all shouting _corsairs_ and wouldn't listen to me.How did you do it?"

Aragorn laughed and took the hobbit by the hand."Well met, indeed!" he said."But the 'hows' must wait for later."

Prince Imrahil was amused. "Is that how we speak to our kings?But mayhaps he'll wear his crown in another name!"

Aragorn grinned and said: "In the high tongue I'm _Elessar_ , the Elfstone, and _Envinyatar_ , the Renewer." He touched the green stone."But Strider shall be the name of my house, if it should be established.It will sound better in the high tongue – _Telcontar_ I will be and my heirs that follow me."

Inside the room, only one of the two beds were occupied; the Lady Éowyn lay so pale and still, her chest barely rising. On either side of her bed two men sat glowering at each other, Éomer, and Imrahil's son, Erchirion.The swan-knight's shoulder was now expertly immobilized in fresh bandages, though his face was very pale and his eyes dilated from the poppy medicine.His father, Prince Imrahil, stood behind him.Éomer had dumped his cuirass and helm in the corner, but his clothing, liberally stained with blood, reeked of smoke. Neither young man was about to leave side of the stricken shield-maiden unless forced to.

Aragorn went to her, touching her forehead, before he ran his long, expert fingers over her ice cold arm and hand; the frown on his face deepening.She lay motionless, barely breathing, lapsing deeper and deeper into what might soon become her final sleep. 

"Have you _athelas_?" He looked up sharply; one of the nursing women, Ioreth, made an automatic curtsey.

"I do not know, lord," she answered, "at least not by that name.I can ask the herb-master if he knows of it."

"Yes, or ask for kingsfoil, 'tis what country-folk call it…"

"Oh, that!If you'd said so I'd have known it!No, I don't think so; it has no use as far as I know, except for freshening a room, perhaps… It smells sweetly when it's bruised, does it not?"

"Yes, that's right – and I need some now!Go and ask for it – or find someone to fetch some.And be quick!"

Ioreth scurried away; Aragorn turned wearily to Gandalf. "And Faramir?"

 

"He is near, and gravely ill, needing your help urgently. While the maid and the halfling sink under the Black Breath's coldness, a fire rages through his body even harsher than the fire that burnt his skin… _They_ are both with him…"

 

Aragorn looked questioningly atGandalf, who shrugged, "Where love stands, reason falls – the amah will not leave her charge or suffer anyone else to care for him, and you know how stubborn the other one is, she will not leave her love." 

Aragorn nodded; he turned to Théodred."I must see Faramir first,then I shall come straight back."He clasped the rohir's shoulder. "She is strong, she fights hard… speak to her softly. Even though far off she still may hear you and take some comfort until I can call her back."

He turned and strode quickly throughthe doorway; Gandalf had already hurried away on a mission of his own.A tall, strong-faced woman in soft boots and a long-skirted coat of fine leather came hurrying by, an incongruous apron tied at her waist, now held gathered up in front of her. She pulled up short when she saw Aragorn lingering briefly at a sick man's bed in the corridor outside the door; she reached to touch his arm.He turned, and the two stared at each other for a long moment of utter silence. Thenshe ducked her head and curtsied, speaking without looking up.

"My Lord Faramir has need of you." she said.

"Faramir… ?"

"Come, Sir.We need haste."

She showed him the contents of her apron, green leaves freshly pulled.

"You come well prepared, Mistress," he said with that grave half-smile, and pointed for her to lead the way.

In the silence in the room, they heard a heavy door at the far end of the corridor squeak open and thud closed.Théodred went to the open door, there was no sign of Amah or Aragorn; he closed the door and looked around him.Erchirion swayed slightly in his chair;his father went to his side immediately.

"Come, my boy, lay down here before you fall."

He tried to get Erchirion to the neighbouring vacant bed, but he resisted.Théo went to Prince Imrahil's aid.

"My cousin would not want to see you injured for her sake…Lay down awhile;you can still look out for her."

The poppy medicine hadmade the young knight's eyes droop; the two half-lifted him onto the bed against his mumbled protests before they settled him on his side so he could see Éowyn. Lying so pale and still, and breathing so shallowly, it was difficult to believe she still lived.Erchirion stretched out his arm.

"Let me touch her hand, Father – we may yet call to her in her dreams."

Prince Imrahil considered for a moment.

"Help me push the beds a little closer," he said the Théo. "Our elvish line runs strongly in my second son; he may be able to offer some small aid to her…"

They eased the bed over a little so Erchirion could take Éowyn's cold hand,laying atop the coverlet in his.On the other side of her bed, a very suspicious Éomer frowned, and took up her other hand, as if to keep his sister from being taken from him.Théodred moved to where his cousin sat, leaned forward, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "They only wish to help."

"I can guess just what he wishes!" Éomer growled softly, as Théo dragged a stool up to sit beside him.

"Hush, cousin. The princes of Dol Amroth have ways that we're not privy to…"

He squeezed Éomer's arm to cut off the retort he saw form on the younger man's lips.Éomer looked surly but held his peace, clinging on to his sister's hand below the bandages that supported her broken arm.He ducked his head and bent to brush his lips across her hand, the sword-practise calluses on her knuckles rough against his mouth.

He shook his head, "I kept telling her to wear thicker gloves," he mumbled.

Theo put an arm across his shoulders comfortingly."She is a Shield-maid of the Mark, she won't slip away easily." he murmured.

Across her bed, Prince Imrahil clasped his son's hand in both of his own. "I am with you," he said softly to his son.Both lords closed their eyes.

Gradually, very gradually, Erchirion's breathing slowed to match Éowyn's,breath for shallow breath.

Prince Imrahil frowned. "Not so far…" he whispered, clasping his son's hand the tighter.

Erchirion exhaled a long breath, and in it he whispered Éowyn's name. Itwas as if they heard him calling her from a great distance.His lips moved again and again, but there was no sound. Aragorn returned;in his hands a bunch of green leaves and a small kettle of steaming water.He came to stand beside Éomer.

"Alas, she fought against a foe beyond the strength of her mind and body.Sad lady; when I first saw her she was a white lily, standing straight and tall on the steps of Meduseld, yet even then you could see her thatdelicate form might have been wrought from elven steel, her eyes frosted by sorrows held back…"

"There were no such sorrows until she met you!" Éomer blurted out."She worried for the king's bewitchment and dreaded what Wormtongue might urge him to do next, but those fears did not bring this about."

"No, her fears began long before," said Gandalf,who had slipped back among them unnoticed. "You had horses and deeds of arms, and the freedom to act as you saw fit.She had the constraints of her sex and although her courage and resolve matched yours, she could only wait on an old man she loved as a father and do nothing but watch him fail before her.Do you think Wormtongue had poison only for your father's ears?Who knows what she spoke to the darkness in the bitter hours of the night,when all her world seemed to be shrinking to a cage?"

Éomer was fell silent, and Aragorn touched his shoulder gently.Imrahil watched them from where he sat on the bed behind his son's still form.

"Truly,she loves you more than me.In you she sees what she knows and values, in me she loves a shadow, only a thought of great deeds and a hope for glory beyond her narrow confines.And what makes it worse for her, is that at heart she knows that to be true.I can do my best to call her back and heal her, but I cannot cure despair. For that there must be another healing that I cannot bring."

He lent over her and kissed her forehead, calling to her softly.

"Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, awake!Your enemy has passed away."

And both she and Erchirion took a deeper breath.Prince Imrahil shook his son's hand and placed his other hand on Erchirion's head.He bent to whisper in his son's ear, as if to carefully rouse him from sleep.Aragorn crushed some of the _athelas_ leaves and tossed them into the steaming water.He dampened a cloth he'd brought with him in the herbal water and laved her forehead; then gently disengaged the young lord of Dol Amroth's fingers from hers so he could wash her arm with the brew.All about them was a clean freshness, as of pure mountain air after snow.There was no scent to it; more an absence of the stifling odours of the Houses, replaced by an invigorating sense of newness and healing, washingover them like a clean wind from the sea.

Erchirion opened his eyes and smiled."I walked in bright sunlight on the long strand beyond the bay. There were white horses that galloped free, splashing through the shallows… the sun made them seem to wade through diamonds...then one turned and came towards my call…"

Imrahil patted his son's shoulder, "I know…" was all he said.

 

"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" said Aragorn again.He took her right hand and felt it warming as life returned; then he took Éomer's hand and placed her hand in his. "Call her!"

 

Gandalf beckoned to him, "We must see to Meriadoc now," he said, and the two quietly left the chamber.

 

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" cried Éomer, his tears flowing freely.

Slowly she opened her eyes: "Éomer – you're safe!And Théodred!They said you were dead… that the ghosts from the Wood had stolen you away… They said… but no – those were the dark voices from my dreams.I ran from them and then… there was nothing but blue and light and I knew I could run free forever if I wanted… but… someone called me to stay…How long have I been dreaming?"

"Not long, little sister," said Éomer, "But don't try to think about it now."

"I am strangely tired," she said."Perhaps I will rest a while.But what of Théoden King?I know he is dead… he foresaw it."

Théodred bowed his head, "He is dead, but before he died he told me to say goodbye to you for him; he loved you as his daughter…"He lifted his chin, "Now he lies in state, here in the Citadel."

She nodded, "That is good.I have so worried that the honour of the House of Eorl was sunk lower than any shepherd's brood…And what of the king's esquire, the Halfling?Théodred, you must make him a knight of the Riddermark, he was valiant!"Then she paused for a moment in confusion, "You are king aren't you, Théodred?I know Éomer was declared heir when Wormtongue told father-king you'd been seized by the _dwimmers_ from the wood, but…"

 

Théodred smiled, "Not ghosts,Little Plum," The Shieldmaid of Rohan was even too tired to object to her despised baby-name, "They are Elves, to be sure, and some of their ways are strange, but they have honour; they fight with valour and such war-skill that few of our men could match… and yet they too know how to sing a companion away and mark his passing with sorrow…"Théodred's voice faltered as he remembered the elves' acute grief as they let their fellow go to the river-waters. "I went with them for a reason, and it was the right reason."

 

"For Boromir?" said Éomer.

Théo nodded, "Don't say I deserted my warriors or my king!I could have as easily died at the Fords as anywhere else in Rohan.That I didn't die is thanks to those 'spirits in the Wood' – you have them to thank, they healed me when I was sick nearly to dieing."

"You were…?" gasped Éowyn, struggling to sit up.

 

"It is past, and I'm all better now,Little Plum…" "Don't call me that!" snapped Éowyn, dropping back onto her pillow.

 

Her brother laughed, "See?She's getting better already!"

Éowyn turned away her head crossly, and looked straight into the eyes of Erchirion, lying on his pillow watching her.

 

"Oooh…!"Her mouth dropped open in surprise, until she realised and she shut her mouth.She turned back hastily, her cheeks blooming to pale rose. She cleared her throat and nudged her brother, flicking her eyes sideways to the strange man laying in the bed next-door '…who's that?!' her face said.

 

Théodred looked up, amused.Prince Imrahil helped his son to sit slowly upright; the young man bit his lip to cover the suppressed groan as his broken shoulder and ribs flexed with his movements.A sweat broke out on his forehead with the effort of not crying out loud.King Théodred made a formal bow.

"Sister-cousin - may I introduce to you Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and his son, Lord Erchirion, a swan-knight of Dol Amroth, lately injured in battle on the Pelennor.Prince Imrahil, Lord Erchirion… my sister-cousin, Lady Éowyn of Rohan."

Prince Imrahil bowed in return, Erchirion attempted but gasped in pain as his damaged ribs objected.

"Pray excuse yourself, Lord!" said Theo, "I'm sure a nod between warriors is enough to cover protocol."

Rohan's shieldmaiden glared at her cousin, before turning to smile at Prince Imrahil, but she could barely meet Erchirion's eye.His face fell in disappointment. His father keenly aware of his son's discomfort spoke first, "We should leave you to rest, my lady.Perhaps we may speak again later?"

Éowyn nodded curtly.Éomer stood to take their leave with barely concealed triumph, while Théodred's brow furrowed at this apparent rudeness.

"Sir," he said, "We will be glad to entertain you when my sister-cousin is more herself."Then he nudged his Third Marshal to bow in the proper manner expected of him.

After they had left the room, Prince Imrahil hovering to support his son, whose stiff-backed walk, told of iron-control as much as disappointment, Theo cuffed Éomer's arm.

"What was that for?"

"That," said Theo, "was for being rude to a Prince!"

 

"It wasn't Prince Imrahil I was being rude to…" Theo cuffed him again, shaking his head, "I could do with a stiff drink, but if nothing can be found, then some tea would do your sister good - why don't you try and find some?" 

 

"Me…?"

"You!"

"A stiff drink?"

"Find a servant, - there must be kitchens here – and don't stay to warm a scullery-wench to your glory either!We're not at home now!"

Éomer grinned roguishly."Don't I deserve one?"

"No!!" said Theo and Éowyn together.Éomer was still grinning as he reached the door.

"A brief while with your sister, and then I'll come to find you.We need to see to the men – your wenching can wait till later."

"A brief while will be enough for me," said Éomer,still grinning as he left.

Theo grinned and tossed his head with a snort. Some scullery maid was about to be charmed into tossing her petticoats over her head, before she'd even had time to boil the water!He turned to Éowyn, whose expression of wearily amused exasperation matched his own.

"How do you feel?"

Her face immediately sobered, and as memories returned her eyes became bleak."I will be happier when I can fill some rider's empty saddle."

 

Theo sighed. "I hope it will not come to that Plum."Éowyn was too tired to remonstrate with her cousin; she could feel her eyelids drooping, but this time she welcomed sleep, knowing there would be no dark pit of evil dreams waiting for her.Her head nodded to one side before she forced herself awake again.

 

"No, don't fight it – sleep is what you need to heal you."She smiled,her eyelids slowly closing.

"Éowyn… who called to you in your dreams… the first time?" Theo asked softly.

"Lord…A'gorn…" was the mumbled reply.Theo leant forward till his head was on a level with her face on the pillow.

"Who really called to you…?"

"Doesn't… matter…"

"Tell me, sweeting," he whispered gently, "…It wasn't Lord Aragorn, was it, not to begin with?"She wearily shook her head.

"Was it the young lord of Dol Amroth?"Sleepily, she refused to answer; Théodred persisted. "Erchirion is a noble man, it's something he would try to do… was it him?"

She frowned and turned her face to the pillow. "I don't know…" she mumbled, "It might have been… doesn't matter…" She struggled to rouse herself, "It does not matter!"

Theo hushed her, stroking her from shoulder to wrist to soothe her until she drifted into welcome rest, "Sleep, little sister, let your dreams be sweet ones.Ride free."

Her eyes were closed now and her breathing deep and even.He watched her for a few moments, saw the tiny smile curve her lips and imagined her dream – riding down that long sunlit strand perhaps, splashing diamond-droplets from the shallow surf… apart from the fact… Éowyn had never seen the sea.

He rose and went to the door; as he opened it, the stench and murmur of the field hospital the Houses had become hit his nostrils and his ears.He closed the heavy door quickly behind him; let him do that small protection for her anyway.

They still had much to do – their enemy was not wholly defeated yet, and now their army was even more depleted.He straightened up, pushed away from the door, and then he stalked off to find his Third Marshal – even if that meant upsetting his amorous moment with the scullery-maid!

******************************************************************** 

Authors Note:   At some points in this chapter (and the previous one)  I have tried to use phrases from the original text, or to paraphrase.  

 As I've written this I found I wanted to incorporate my other !verse into this parallel Middle-earth.  Some of the stories of the Amah can be found archived on HASA in 'The Blue Book of Melleth', including her version of the Houses of Healing.  Since they were written before this, in those stories Boromir is dead - at some point I may try to remove that discrepancy and knit the melleth!verse  more tightly with this tale   It may not be possible, but you should know that in my mind this is the same character  and the stories are versions of the same stories.


	35. Back in Lothlorien  Sworn duty, destiny, love and hope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Boromir swayed, giddy from the kaleidoscope of swirling images in his mind. He sat down hard, dazed by the sudden, overwhelming flood of returning memories. Up in an ante room to the Great Hall, Lord Celeborn paused in his private deliberations with Lady Galadriel and Lord Glorfindal. The Lady laughed softly as she caught a wisp of the unruly thoughts thrust unlooked for into the forefront of her husband’s mind.  
  
“So quick and busy… like brilliant fire-flies. Or is that forest fires?” Her lips quirked into a wry smile.  
  
“Forgive us a moment,” said her husband.  
  
Calmly, he pushed the chaotic thoughts away, and with them sent a wave of peaceful lassitude. Boromir, far below, seated at the table with Lórindol and Lindir, slumped a little, exhaling a long breath before taking in an equally slow, deep draught of air. Satisfied to have contained the disturbing upsurge of memories, Celeborn returned to the matter in hand – Tasarion.  
  
Lady Galadriel felt finally able to voice some of what her mirror had told her years ago when the young elf-maid had first been presented to her on becoming an adult. The maid had a possible destiny that concerned her husband; one Galadriel knew involved a child, but not a relationship between them – now it had come to pass. Glorfindal was present because Tasarion was his great-grand daughter, and as head of her kin his agreement to what was expedient was politic.  
  
“The babe will be born, she has decided that,” he said. “Afterwards, she will see it raised, but her mind is set on going into the West. She does not want to keep the child herself.”  
  
Galadriel nodded, satisfied. Lord Celeborn sighed, torn between wanting the child she bore and feeling guilt because of the way the maid had been manoeuvred into bearing the babe – which was as much his as Boromir’s... and Haldir’s – that he could not forget either.  
  
“It was her destiny.” Galadriel said flatly.  
  
“She deserved to have a choice,” snapped her husband.  
  
“She did. She choose the adan.”  
  
“But only because she was thrust against him!”  
  
The Lady shrugged elegant shoulders. “She had a purpose to fulfil – and she has.”  
  
With a wordless explosive breath of ire, Celeborn threw himself back in his chair.  
  
“I swore to do my duty – whatever the cost! This child had to be born!” declared his lady. “I did not make the choice – I saw that it existed, and that it was important. Do you think I want this child for myself? He is your son – a child for you and…!”  
“A son?” Celeborn’s head jerked up.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Celeborn looked at Glorfindal, who nodded a brief assent.  
  
Lady Galadriel continued: “Long ago, I glimpsed a peredhel in the stern of an elvish boat, sailing down the Anduin. I did not know who he was, but the dreaming strings of our future knotted around him. I… I had thought at one time it might have been a glimpse of Elrond as a child, but his tie to us… was different.”  
  
Lady Galadriel raised her chin and her voice brooked no compromise. “I will see our lost daughter again - you will not. Do not protest. You will not join me… And as to our granddaughter…!” She paused, biting back the words.  
“Did you think I could live all our life together without knowing you will not leave?” Her voice became gentler. “This son is for you. He is nothing of mine, save I saw a path, a possibility for… I knew there was a reason this adan must live… and… I saw that done.”  
  
Celeborn was silent a moment. “But, this way…?”  
  
Galadriel shrugged, “I did not see ‘how’, only that the threads came together for a reason. That it came about at this time, when all our fates rest on a knife-edge… that was not shown to me.”  
  
Glorfindal sat forward, resting his elbows on the table they all three sat around, his chin balanced on his steepled fingers. He paused before speaking into the silence in measured tones.  
  
“For the moment - we need set aside why and how, and concentrate on what is to be done with Tasarion. She must be kept safe – we agree that?” asked Glorfindal. At their nods he continued, “She is unwilling to don her skirts in time of war and become as she says ‘a useless seamstress’. Her training has been to the bow and that is how she wishes to remain, at present.”  
  
“She should retreat to our fastnesses. I would not have her at risk.” said Celeborn.  
  
“Naturally,” agreed Glorfindal. “But she will not have that. I suggest she joins my Lady’s guard and remains in the city. She can take the posts of look-out and messenger, and should the worst happen, still use her bow.”  
  
“If the borders are overrun… and the yrech press into the forest, then it will be that courage and bows are needed more than babes.” remarked Galadriel. “The Darkness that will follow will be no place for elven children.”  
  
“And do you see that?” demanded Celeborn.  
  
“I see nothing, neither good nor bad – only I did see her with a babe with green eyes in her arms, a peredhel. And when the Fellowship arrived and I looked at him, they were the same eyes. I knew he was in danger. I knew his love would save him – his love was a golden-haired horse-lord, not an elf maid… the rest… was circumstance.”  
  
Lady Galadriel had seen and commanded many deeds that lay upon her conscience; enough past sacrifices had been made that another scarce made any difference.  
  
Lord Celeborn sighed, what was done was done – and they had many other pressing matters. If their defences did not hold… destinies would be a moot point. But… a son, his son… their son… a ghost of a smile curved his lips as he thought of his pale-haired lover… our son! He shook his head – there was other work here!  
  
Lady Galadriel smiled quietly to herself, ‘…what chance there was for the future…’ She had played her pieces, now let the game fall where it will.  
  
“We are agreed?” asked Glorfindal, “…then we should look to the scout’s reports…”  
  
  
  
At the table in the common hall, Lindir refilled Boromir’s wine beaker and closed the man’s fingers around it.  
  
“Drink.”  
  
Boromir did as he was bid. The flood of memories had retreated, and content with knowing they were there, at present he did not feel inclined to follow them. But he could see his face, the man… yes, Man… who had made a solemn vow to him at his bedside. The man who had nursed him when he’d been sorely injured, held him many, many times in a past that was still hazy, but now was real. The man… Théodred! His name was Théodred and he was Prince of Rohan!  
  
Rohan, to the south, bordered by the Old Forest he’d often explored with the Ents… Boromir gulped his wine. He knew there was more to that thought he didn’t quite understand, but like a name on the tip of the tongue, it escaped him. ‘Théodred!’ – Boromir remembered – he had been asleep. Then somehow he knew - Théodred was lost, on the verge of leaving… and he had ridden out to find his rohir, his love; seen him standing outside the huge, carved doors of a great hall, spoken… But, when he’d tried to return, he couldn’t find his way. It was dark, muffled with heavy mists and there were no paths… and as he’d stumbled on into darkness edged with shapes and shufflings… a silvery light had gathered him up. And he’d woken as Celebmir… was he still Celebmir…?  
  
Lórindol and Lindir watched him closely. Lindir whispered “Do you think we went too far?”  
  
Lórindol shook his head, “You could see it was time – he needed to know.”  
  
“But, perhaps… They wanted… I don’t know. That he stayed like it?”  
  
Lórindol shrugged. “Guard duty in the back-end of the mountains for the next fifty years?”  
  
“It was really boring last time.”  
  
“I seem to remember we found a few diversions…”  
  
But reminiscences were interrupted by Haldir’s arrival, with Gwindor at his elbow.  
  
“Scouting parties need to be sent out to the garths to ascertain their strength and position. I realise you have not rested after riding hard, but we need every arm that can pull a bow…  
  
“We can ride, Marchwarden” asserted Lórindol, “Just tell us where.”  
  
Haldir nodded. “Two parties one to the Apple Garth, one to the Walnut. We need to know what their forces are, what damage, what supplies they need.”  
  
“I will go as well,” announced Boromir.  
  
Haldir looked at him sceptically.  
  
“I will go. If we find matters of urgency, I can relay them quicker than any messenger… you know that.” The man said matter of factly.  
  
Haldir considered for a moment. “As you will. Fresh horses are being prepared; by the time you walk to the stables they will be ready. I shall send each party with two pack-horses of emergency supplies for the garths; we must hope that is sufficient.”  
  
He turned on his heel as another elf hurried up to him with messages. The two left and Gwindor sat down with them. Lindir pushed the jug of wine towards him and Gwindor helped himself.  
  
“I suggest we take the Apple Garth,” he said, between sipping his wine.  
  
Lórindol and Lindir glanced at each other.  
  
“You will ride with us?” Lindir said.  
  
“Yes. Why not?” said Gwindor.  
  
“Nothing. I did not know if you would choose…” Lindir broke off in confusion.  
  
“Now is not the time for laments. War comes too quickly. Those that survive can sing away their brothers later.” He rose, “Come – we have work to do.”  
  
Whatever he and Haldir had spoken off, Gwindor now seemed calmness and reason itself. He stood with half a smile. “But it is good to be home.”  
  
Gwindor walked ahead, Lórindol, Lindir and Boromir followed him towards the stables.  
  
An hour later they were on horseback, threading their way through the trees and clearings, making for the two garths furthest from the city. The woods they road among where untouched by the incursions of the orcs. Here, deep inside Lorien’s borders, the ground was emerald moss over rocks above half-hidden springs, green uncurling ferns and new budded brambles. Tiny flowers bloomed in the greensward and above them stately trees of many sorts towered overhead. Saplings still grew of ash and willow, birch and oak, but no new golden Mallorns sprouted, young and whip-lash thin, among the forests of Lothlorien.  
  
Their path rose in a long slow incline; until, topping a bluff, they caught sight of the group of huge oaks that formed the dwelling of the elves of the Apple Garth. They rose wide-branched, great of girth, in a clearing at the centre of the orchards of smaller, lighter branched apple-trees. While one half of the orchards held well-tended trees, just beginning to bear pink-tipped white blossoms… the other… was a partial ruin of hacked trunks and branches. Some blackened wrecks still smoked and stank from the fires of being doused with fish-oil. Corpses littered the ground, black as the greasy ash, ugly with metal helms and the studded hides of Iluvatar knows what, their notched, black iron weapons about them. More apple-trees flared abruptly into hissing flames, white-fletched arrows from the oaks fell short of the fires.  
  
Boromir had to strain his eyes, but the elves saw clearly that a large group of orcs still sidled around the edge of the orchard, intent on doing what damage they could while staying beyond the reach of elvish arrows. Gwindor’s eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitened on his horse’s reins.  
  
“Our numbers are few,” said Lindir quietly.  
  
“Do you think me foolish enough to charge openly?” snapped Gwindor.  
  
“We only mention it…” Lórindol let the rest of the sentence hang. They had seen what rashness Gwindor enraged was capable of.  
  
“I’ll not throw my life away when I can live and kill more of that vileness!” Gwindor’s smile was mirthless. His eyes glittered with cold wrath at the sight of yrech inside Lorien’s borders. “Come, there are other ways to skin a beast than charging it down.”  
  
He turned his horse’s head to a path that would take them around to the backs of the destructive orcs.  
  
Their horses tethered well downwind of the marauding beasts, the small party of elves and Boromir approached them from behind. The orcs were confident, feasting on some slaughtered pigs that hadn’t been able to be gathered inside the protecting garth of oaks. The butchering made the woods stink of blood, but this also served to distract the orcs from their approach. Not ever given to ‘fair shares’ some small numbers of orcs squabbled over their kills in scattered groups among the taller woodland trees that edged the orchards. The first two such never knew what swung down from the trees to slash throats and stab at hearts before vanishing silently back into the branches. The third and fourth raised some noise but where barely heard above the quarrelling of the others. Only after that did one of the beasts notice the drop in sound; that nothing stirred under the trees to one side of him. His suspicions were too late when an arrow took him through the throat, but his gargled yelp finally alerted the others.  
  
“There’s White Maggots in the trees!” yelled one self-styled leader.  
  
Pig-flesh set aside, their still-confident thoughts turned to other rendings.  
  
“Get ‘em! Look up and get’em!!”  
  
But looking up meant a feathered shaft in the eye for the unwary, and nothing to see but swaying leaves and branches for the rest of the howling mob.  
  
Gwindor sprinted lightly back along a branch before leaping to the next tree, deeper into the wood. He sprang again, pausing to whisper to Boromir safely ensconced in a wide crook of branches.  
  
“Shoot what comes after me and don’t miss! Or I’ll have to come back and rescue you!”  
  
“I won’t miss!” growled Boromir, but Gwindor was already scampering lightly along a branch, before swinging down to slit the throat of a single bold orc ahead and to one side of its fellow spawn. The black figure dropped in an untidy heap gushing black blood from a gapping throat wound.  
  
The next was not so easy; Gwindor’s lethal knife clanged against a substantial metal gorget around the creature’s wide neck. A throaty cackle of laughter emerged as the orc fended off the blow and wrong-footed Gwindor in the process. Of a sudden, the wide-open mouth sprouted a white feathered tongue; the cackle cut short to a gargle of blood before it fell, face down, to the ground. Gwindor caught sight of Boromir and his bow and gave a curt nod of thanks before springing away, back into the trees.  
  
Wood-craft was unknown to the yrech, they swarmed after their invisible attackers, but were cut down one by one. As their number dwindled, some thought to gather together for safety in numbers, each trying to cower behind the others as they sought to escape. The elves of the garth could see the disturbance and some made a sortie to aid the unseen relief. Attacked on two sides now the raid became a rout, and only a few especially fleet orcs survived to run away from the vengeful elves; doubling back through the unharmed orchards, to escape out onto the plains of Rohan beyond the forest.  
  
Boromir clambered down from his perch with reasonable agility; he may not be as light-footed as the elves but his aim was as sure – he felt pleased with that. Lórindol jumped lightly down from a nearby Ash. Lindir trotted up to greet him; both were spattered and streaked with dark blood. Lindir grinned wolfishly as he brushed ineffectually at Lórindol’s gore spattered plaits. “That’s the trouble with throat-cutting – they do spout!”  
  
“You’re making it worse!” protested Lórindol, but he was grinning too.  
  
There was something fell and feral about their mirth, but Boromir could enjoy the harsh joke and laughed aloud with them, clapping them on the shoulder. Gwindor arrived with more elves, the denizens of the Apple Garth – which led to more relieved laughter, laughter that was dark with triumph and sated blood-lust.  
  
“You are most welcome!” said one of the orchard-keepers.  
  
Gwindor bowed, hand to heart, “We bring some supplies that we hope are not too few, and seek news of your disposition for Lord Celeborn.”  
  
“Indeed – both questions shall be answered, but now you’ve cleared those yrech from our orchards, we can pause to let you avail yourselves of hospitality first – a good bath and a hot meal? “  
  
Gwindor nodded, “I am sure I speak for all when I say both would be welcome.”  
  
The elves came with them to retrieve their mounts and the pack-horses, though they eyed Boromir curiously, none questioned the presence of an adan among them. Though the younger elves whispered quietly among themselves, for this was the first man many had seen close to.  
  
The stronghold of the Apple Garth was large enough and old enough to boast sophisticated bathing arrangements. Within the encircling oak trees’ protection were several substantial wood and stone buildings at ground level, one of which was a fine bathhouse, its large pools heated by wood-burning furnaces… which also served the smithies that made the excellent steel weapons the garth was known for. No smiths worked at present, but Boromir saw the anvils and racks of hammers inside the half-open workshops they walked past, and could still felt the armed air from the residual heat of the forges, stoked down under iron cover-plates until they needed to be roused by the great leather bellows at their sides.  
  
Inside the bathhouse, they were shown to a series of small rooms were one could undress and leave weapons, racks of wooden shelves held towels and sheets to wrap around them before they went to the pools. The four shared a room lined with slatted wood benches, with hooks for clothing. A smiling attendant showed them the way and said he’d take their knives with him and have them cleaned and re-sharpened while they bathed.  
  
Steam rose lazily above a pool easily large enough for a dozen or more, though the four of them were its only occupants. This was one among several, but the garth’s elves deemed it polite to allow visitors to bathe in privacy – though not a few were keen to catch a glimpse of this new curiosity – a naked man! Before they climbed into the water, there was a square room with soap and basins to remove the grime… and some strange arrangements Boromir became keen to try himself. Several deep, tiled alcoves lined the small room, at the back of each was a round pierced plate of steel, placed above head-height, and a handle set proud of the tiled wall. Gwindor was ahead of the man; he hung his bath-sheet on a peg and stepped over the raised rim of the cubicle. Turning the handle released a flood of steaming water from the pierced plate. Gwindor stood, head back, eyes shut, under the stream letting the warmed water wash over him, sluicing the gore from his plaited hair, the sweat from his body. Lindir smiled at Boromir’s amazement.  
  
“Come, I don’t think you’ve visited our waterfalls before – it’s a good sensation.”  
  
The arched white-tiled alcoves were large enough for two. Lórindol nodded to Lindir and walked over to Gwindor.  
  
“Shall I loose you hair?” he asked.  
  
Gwindor paused for a moment before nodding once, “You may.” He said gruffly turning his back. Lórindol hung up his sheet outside the cubicle and stepped into the stream of water. Steam began to fill the room.  
  
“Will you do me the service of un-plaiting my hair?” asked Lindir, looking the man straight in the eye.  
  
To Boromir’s own surprise, the blood rose to his cheeks at the thought of being so close to a naked elf. He swallowed, and nodded. Lindir hung up his sheet and stepped over the threshold reaching for the handle that released the water above them. Boromir paused for a second; closed his eyes to obscure the sight of Lindir’s naked back and buttocks, then released his own wrap that he now realised his was clinging tightly to… and stepped into the streaming water. He gasped. It felt wonderful! He tilted his head back and the water beat on his eyelids and filled his mouth. He wiped his lips with his hands pushing his drenched hair back from his face.  
  
“You can put the pins and wraps there,” said Lindir, his back still to Boromir he nodded at a small lipped bowl inset into the tiles. Boromir brought himself back to the task in hand.  
  
“There, spread that liquid on your hands and through my hair and it will come undone easier.”  
  
He did as he was bid. The elf leaned forward slightly his hands high, braced against the tiles. Leaning his head back for Boromir to slide soapy hands through his hair, un-ravelling the tight warriors plaits into a heavy fall of drenched hair. Automatically Boromir’s fingers knew their task, he soaped his hands with the softly perfumed liquid and worked it into the elf’s scalp before working his way down to the knotted shoulder muscles. Lindir grunted appreciatively under his ministrations, rolling his neck and shoulders with relief. Boromir did not think, he concentrated on his task, enjoying the play of the elf’s muscles under his hands. He had worked his way down his back over his ribs to his waist before he woke to the fact of what he was doing.  
  
“Do not stop.” Lindir’s voice was low and heavy with pleasure.  
  
Boromir still hesitated. Lindir turned, “Then let me wash your hair.”  
  
He turned the man around and filling his hands, soaped Boromir’s hair, his fingers gliding against the man’s scalp, along his shoulders, down his arms, with long sweeps of supple fingers. The elf reached around and lathered his chest, soaping his ribs, taking care to touch lightly over the healed pink skin of his wound, before snaking down his back… and keeping going to circle his buttocks with firm, lengthy strokes. Boromir gasped and his mouth filled with soapy water. He spluttered it out and felt as much as heard Lindir chuckle behind him, so close was the elf to his naked back.  
  
“You are warmer than the water,” breathed Lindir close to his ear, “A release – is all. Surely a comrade’s hand has its uses even among men?”  
  
Boromir realised his own excitement was evident at the same moment he felt a nudge of hot flesh at his back. He closed his eyes, ‘yes… he needed this.’ He reached a hand behind his and found the strangely slim, but stiffened column that pushed into his hand. Lindir groaned; he slid a slick hand around the man’s hip and caught Boromir’s swaying erection, ringing it with his fingers. Boromir gasped; this time he simply swallowed the mouthful of warm water. He released Lindir, pulled out of his grasp and turned to face him, grabbing the elf’s longer, more slender erection with one hand pulling Lindir to him with a hand about the elf’s waist. Lindir bared his teeth and exhaled a groan of pleasure. He dived with his own hands to cradle the man’s heavy sac and grasp Boromir, circling his fingers around his engorged flesh and rubbing their aching cocks together. Slick with soap, warm water and lust, it did not take long for each to reach a climax. Leaving them panting, leaning on each others shoulder… before Lindir reached for more soap to wash them both clean. Dazed, breathing hard, desire becoming tinged with guilt, Boromir stood and allowed himself to be laved before he caught the elf’s wrist and held him fast. Lindir looked him in the eye:  
  
“It was what we both needed – nothing more than that.” He said softly.  
  
“And what of…” Boromir jerked his head towards the other alcove across the steam-filled room.  
  
Lindir cocked his head, there was but some tiny slippery sounds of slicked flesh and stifled heavy breathing: “We all do what we must do…” He said. “Come, rinse the soap from your hair and we’ll go and relax in the pool before we dine.”  
  
He stretched upwards, reaching back to wring the water from his hair as he stepped out of the cubicle. Draping his bath sheet loosely over one shoulder, he turned an elegant water-slicked back and padded sinuously across the room, half-disappearing in the gathered steam.  
  
“Turn the water off when you’re finished,” a disembodied voice called back.  
  
Boromir stepped out and gathered his wrap. Lórindol walked by him, his bath-sheet precariously clinging onto slim hip-bones. His face was grave, though he winked at Boromir, and gripped his shoulder in brief comradeship as he passed.  
  
“Come and have a soak, nothing like relaxing in a good hot pool to take injurious thoughts away,” Lórindol smiled a little bleakly.  
  
Boromir nodded, choosing not to acknowledge the soft, stifled sobs that escaped from under the nearby still-running water, hidden by the steam.  
  
“He will join us when he is ready,” said Lórindol quietly – before bounding forward throwing aside his sheet and jumping into the large pool with a huge splash… much to Lindir’s annoyed protests. Grinning, Boromir joined them.


	36. The Quiet Before The Storm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Boromir drowsed in the heated water, slumped on one of the wide steps edging the inside of the pool that allowed the bathers to bask neck-deep in the warmth. He watched with idle interest; Lórindol floated on his back in the middle of the pool, but appeared to be able to adjust his buoyancy, so that, eyes closed, he sank slowly underwater to rest on the bottom, before gently rising again – it appeared to be his party piece! A while before, a quartet of the garth’s elves had politely enquired if they might use this pool as well, and having been granted access, they’d become cheerful comrades to the wardens from Caras Galadhon. When one tried to copy the same feat as Lórindol, he eventually emerged spluttering and gasping, to much laughter. Evidently it was easier to go down than it was to come up again!  
  
Gwindor had taken a corner by himself. Composed to the point of being stony-faced; he propped himself up, arms outstretched, and let his head fall back on the pool’s tiled rim, eyes closed. Lórindol and Lindir glanced at each other and subtly moved the floating games across the pool away from the silent elf. They called on Boromir to join them, and he too found he could sink gracefully if he really put his mind to it. Rising to the surface he had a tendency to roll over, to find he was face down, buttocks bobbing in the water – which the others found hilariously funny! After the third attempt Boromir gave in gracefully and acknowledged his control was nowhere near as complete as theirs. Lórindol was about to offer help and advise when an attendant came to the doorway and struck the small bronze gong he carried; the sound rang sonorously over the water.  
  
“Come - the evening meal is being prepared, time to get dried off,” said Lindir; he waded chest deep across to the steps at one side, slowly emerging from the water. He paused deliberately, just at the point where the lapping wavelets played across his groin, alternately revealing and concealing what hung below, then languorously reached up to wring out his hair, fully aware of the alluring view he presented.  
  
Lórindol swam across the Boromir; he chuckled and spoke quietly in Westron, “He can be such… I believe the phrase you would use is – such a tart!”  
  
Boromir laughed out loud, and glanced across at the quartet of elves looking on, at least one of whom showed distinct interest in what Lindir so carefully displayed.  
  
“But you and he are partners… I thought.”  
  
“Vanity. He wants them to see what they can’t have. And besides, we are ‘exotics’, or rather you are; that’s partly why they are here.”  
  
“To see me?” Boromir looked startled.  
  
They made their way towards the steps. Lindir grinned at Lórindol and winked, before turning to quickly splash up the last three steps. He strode to a bench to gather his sheet and wrap it around his hips before reaching for more towels to dry off with.  
  
“Yes, they’ve all heard rumours about the way men are more substantially… endowed. I don’t think they were disappointed in you!”  
  
The elf laughed at Boromir’s discomfited expression and ran up the steps in a surge of splashing water to accept a towel from Lindir’s waiting hands. Boromir had half a mind to turn and give the remaining bathers a blatant full-frontal to satisfy their curiosity, but decided dignity was better served by ignoring the matter. He waded out slowly, his back to them, and gathered his sheet firmly about him before following Lórindol and Lindir into the dressing-room.  
  
Their gore-stained clothes and leathers had been removed; simple shirts, leggings and tunics were left out for them. The two elves took turns to plait each others hair, retaining their customary fashion of warrior braids, something which Boromir later realised was not a style so universally used among the elves here, when they joined their hosts up in the dining hall. It was Lórindol who spoke quietly to Gwindor and received a perfunctory nod of assent; he quickly and deftly plaited the more senior elf’s hair into several tight braids, pinning them at the back of his head to twist in an intricate pattern among the long fall of dark, glossy hair.  
  
They were welcomed to mount rope ladders to the first level of flets; the lower part of the wooden staircases having been dismantled to make scaling the mighty oaks more difficult for any besiegers who managed to get that far. From there, they walked up stairs normally, though they passed guards and lookouts at each level. The broad stairs turned into balustrade-enclosed landings from which other narrower stairs and paths led off, and at the upper levels, the wide circle of huge Oak trees were inter-connected by high walkways constructed of ropes and planks. While any immediate danger seemed to have passed, the elves were wary enough to remain vigilant.  
  
On one of the largest flets was a great hall for dining, main meals eaten communally on long tables with benches either side. Boromir and the elves were welcomed to their guest-place at the Garth council’s table; nearby was another square table, laid for eight. Each place was taken bar one; Gwindor was assigned that vacant seat. The elf stopped dead and a rush of emotions raced across his face before he composed his features, bowed graciously and took his place with the Garth’s elves.  
  
Lórindol hissed through his teeth in disapproval, before getting an elbow in the ribs from Lindir. They sat and Boromir took a place opposite to them; he ‘knew’ what was happening, without quite knowing why… and that felt rather strange. He frowned at the alien memory he couldn’t quite recognise, but ‘knew’ that Gwindor was being formally entertained by some possible new partners-in-arms, selected by the garth’s council as suitable candidates. It was an old-fashioned tradition that some garths held to… and though he scarce knew why, the concept left him slightly irritated. He watched a broad-shouldered elf to Gwindor’s left who was obviously making introductions, though the table was far enough away for only a burble of sound to reach them over the conversational hubbub from the other diners in the hall.  
  
“It is too soon!” hissed Lórindol.  
  
“It is tradition here!” muttered Lindir.  
  
Boromir accepted a knob of fresh bread and broke it open over his wooden trencher. Two waiting-elves served the three with large bowls of thick, vegetable soup, hot and savoury. He waited until they’d passed along the table before he spoke in Westron:  
  
“Do they make Gwindor choose someone tonight?”  
  
Lindir shook his head and replied in the same tongue, “An introduction only. Gwindor has renown as a warrior, and the high favour of the Marchwarden… For him to ally himself with one from Apple Garth… It would confer honour here.”  
  
“It is still too soon for him.” Lórindol asserted sullenly.  
  
“Hush… Everyone at that table is, or was, a warrior. The council will have the sense not try and foist some pretty balladeer on him.”  
  
Lórindol snorted disdainfully.  
  
“Lórindol…!”  
  
“I hold my peace! But if any think they can take advantage - they’ll have me to deal with first!”  
  
“Meleth… I think the illustrious Gwindor is well able to take his own advantage… if that is what he so desires.” Lindir cocked a laconic eyebrow at his partner… ‘as if the close friend and confident of Lord Haldir and his brothers would have head and heart stolen by some stripling looking to rise quickly among their ranks’.  
  
The three surreptitiously looked across; Gwindor was solemnly nodding to the point somebody was making, before making an unheard remark that made the rest of his table smile and nod in appreciation. He appeared to be reasonably at ease, enough to make Lórindol relax somewhat.  
  
The meat course was roasted pig and root vegetables, followed by baked apples glazed with honey. Two of the council came to join them as they finished eating, apologising for the plain fare. Lindir immediately praised the food as delicious and said they’d been out on patrol long enough that this was a feast fit for the Valar to them. The elves thanked them and, pleasantries over, suggested now would be a good time to confer as to the Garth’s standing and supplies, and what Lord Celeborn proposed with regard to defence.  
  
Boromir sat back with a small goblet of well-aged apple brandy. The fierce, heady liquid evaporated to aromatic vapour on his tongue as he sipped appreciatively. He watched Gwindor; a jug of apple-wine was being passed around the table and toasts drunk… As he watched the cups being raised to absent friends, he saw that tears glittered in more than one pair of eyes at the table. Someone called for another jug – clearly, there was every intention of some serious drinking to come.  
  
A second brandy began to make his own thoughts mellow… and Boromir relished the newly returned memory of a golden horselord, smiling to himself in answer to the other’s remembered smile. He was still Celebmir in part of his mind, but now he knew he was also someone else… someone at times he found hard to recognise… ‘…was he really so proud and stubborn?’ And a small mirthful chuckle from his other part in Caras Galdhon answered. ‘Yes! Both of you!’ It was a moment until Boromir realised that those other eyes were gazing at a head with a long, heavy fall of bright silver hair, now bent over a document so that the locks, released from their warrior braids, fell in a shining, molten pool on the dark tabletop. Their owner’s hand impatiently swept the silver hair aside from the document, and the tiny vision faded. With a small jolt Boromir found himself back in the Apple Garth’s hall; at Gwindor’s table somebody had begun to sing, his voice sweet and low.  
  
 _“You rise like a wave in the ocean,_  
And you fall gently back to the sea…”  
  
The song lilted around the Hall. Some stayed to listen, but many departed on their assigned tasks, to guard, or rest from guarding, and to prepare for the possible attacks. Boromir’s head nodded. Lindir touched his arm lightly, “They’ve made us beds to rest on. You should come away and take some sleep.”  
  
Boromir was going to protest when he realised he was tired, very tired, and the thought of a bed and pillow began to sound appealing.  
  
They ascended to another level and were led to a sleeping flet divided into small chambers by panelled walls of carved wood. Their weapons and leathers, newly cleaned, had been left for them, along with mattresses, pillows and wool-stuffed quilts.  
  
“Shall I make a bed for Gwindor?” asked Boromir.  
  
Lindir shrugged, “Yes, I dare say he’ll return before the night is over.”  
  
Boromir spread some bedding for Gwindor in one corner, and then spread his own in another. Lórindol and Lindir shed their tunics, pushed two mattresses together, dumped a couple of pillows on them and slumped down side by side, hauling a quilt across them.  
  
From the hall below, a deep, slightly husky voice sang a sonorous ballad that spoke of war and heroes. Boromir lay back, his eyelids drooping; as he drifted comfortably before sleep; he could hear the two elves murmuring and the soft sound of a kiss.  
  
“Lindir…?” The man mumbled sleepily, trying to rouse himself to ask the question that troubled him.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“What of Gwindor?”  
  
Other voices had joined the distant singing, including Gwindor’s.  
  
“What about him?”  
  
“What will he do?”  
  
“I do not know, but he will not walk with Mandos, not now.”  
  
“And… do you think he will choose another… from among them?”  
  
“You ask many questions, young one. Go to sleep.”  
  
“I am no child!”  
  
“No lord, you are a man – and men need sleep as much as we need to walk in reverie and find our dreams. Good night!”  
  
The former melody began again; Gwindor’s voice could be heard on its own now, faltering at first but growing stronger.  
  
 _“You shine like the moon over water_  
And you darken the day when you leave…”  
  
Lórindol sighed, “He sings for him...”  
  
“Hush, meleth, it’s a good song to grieve by… Pity him not”  
  
 _"I am here, calling the wind_  
I am here, calling your name  
I am here, calling you back  
Return to me. Return to me..."  
  
“I can not help it,” said Lórindol quietly.  
  
Boromir heard the quilt rustle and skin slide against skin as one elf embraced the other. A final thought came to him as he drifted on the border of sleep.  
  
“It is… that they think it is his duty to take another… isn’t it?” Boromir whispered.  
  
“We are their defenders, and wardens fight in pairs… To fight alone… Would you wish to spend the long years of your life without a comrade at your side?”  
  
“No…” murmured Boromir into his pillow, “No… I’d not…”  
  
Much later, Gwindor came into the chamber quietly and alone. He undressed slowly with a certain studied deliberation that spoke of much wine, and then climbed under his quilt. The other two elves were aware of him, but there were no muffled tears to be heard; Gwindor sank into quiet reverie, his breathing slow and even - a gentle counterpoint to Boromir’s soft snores.  
  
The following morning, they woke, dressed, and breakfasted well on fried, cured meat and bread before leaving the high oaks to find their horses. They waited while the pack animals were loaded with surplus sides of cured pork for the garrison of Caras Galadhon, and heavy bags of arrow-points, cast in the forges here. There’d been no time for them to be fletched - that the elves defending the City of Trees must do themselves. The elder elves of Apple Garth gave messages for Lord Celeborn, and farewelled them away.  
  
Five of the elves from the previous evening lined up to wish Gwindor goodspeed and farewell. He embraced each of them formally, though Boromir did notice that one embrace with the broad-shouldered elf with the slightly gravely voice was perhaps a trifle more lingering than the others –. Now the man could see that the huskiness was probably caused by the great, fading scar that half encircled the elf’s neck to disappear both up into his hair behind the ear and down below his collar. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of the damage that axe-blow had obviously inflicted… and yet the elf survived, and now fought on.  
  
Elves were out dragging away the black corpses of the orcs as they passed through the garth, pyres of broken trees being made ready to rid the orchards of the foul carrion – they would not bury the filth in their ground. They rode away swiftly; though when they reached the main path and had ridden along it for some while, Gwindor slowed, eventually coming to a halt.  
  
“I… I do not think we need go to the Walnut Garth. I’m sure the others have made their way there successfully.” He went to turn his horse’s head eastward to Caras Galadhon.  
  
“Perhaps… we should ride to the rise? Even if only to look?” said Lindir.  
  
Gwindor paused, considered, but was clearly reluctant, “We will go and look, and if all seems well, return today to Caras Galadhon.”  
  
He reined around his horse again, clicking his tongue for his mount to move forward, Lindir glanced at his partner before he followed the elder elf, moving to walk his horse alongside Gwindor’s. Lórindol walked his horse beside Boromir’s.  
  
“Is anything amiss?” the man asked.  
  
“I suspect he would rather not have to spend another night being ‘entertained’ – more like being set out on a market-stall!” replied Lórindol, clearly still irritated by the custom.  
  
“Oh, they have match-makers were I come from too,” said Boromir, with a sudden clear memory of a long ago ball when he had had to partner each dance with a different girl, all the while under the eagle eyes of their avaricious mothers and every other high-bred matron of the court lest he favour one above another.  
  
“Ah…” nodded Lórindol understandingly. “A lord of your status… They expect you to do your duty and sire an heir?”  
  
“Aye. And a spare in case of accidents!” Boromir could still remember the discomfort of knowing he was being judged and quantified… like a price bull… as to how well he might perform that function and get a suitable girl ‘in calf’ – after the niceties of a formal wedding of course!  
  
“But you chose the warrior’s way?”  
  
Boromir frowned, he knew all those memories of his own were there… but many still slipped away before he could grasp them properly.  
  
“I… have had women.” He considered how frank he might be, “…but after the deed was over, they never… inspired in me a passion not to leave them.”  
  
“Which your horselord does.”  
  
Boromir smiled slowly in happy recall, “…That is so.”  
  
They rode on in silence, each momentarily lost within his thoughts. Lórindol smiled at the obvious pleasure in Boromir’s eyes as he remembered his love. A look he knew would be on his own face when he thought of Lindir… Impossible Lindir… flirtatious, vain, bold to the point of foolishness… strong, brave, loving… he shook his head, and at that moment Lindir turned in his saddle to look back at him, a quirk of question on his brow. Lórindol nodded ‘they were alright’. Lindir turned back and rode forward a few paces to catch Gwindor up again.  
  
“We Elves,” Lórindol began, “Have no particular need for heirs, though family is important to us, and we cherish our children dearly… but…” He shrugged, “Not all of us have children. Our clan is as much carried on by nephews and nieces.”  
  
“Don’t you want to see your own son fight beside you?” asked Boromir.  
  
“I would as soon not see him have to fight… but it would be a great delight to know a child comes after me. Alas… I doubt that will happen, and I am content. I will take no maid to wife, and for certain neither will Lindir… When you count your life in long years… an heir is less important. But you men… you are as quick as mayflies to us. So bright and enticing, your fea is a beautiful flame that burns hot and consumes all, only to fade and turn to dust. Oh, I pity the elf that falls for the charms of men; he is doomed to swift sorrows!”  
  
“What about the man who loves the elf and knows they must be parted? Knows he must wither to wrinkled dotage while his love stays fresh as a newly opened flower? Doesn’t he deserve some sympathy?”  
  
“Think you not that might be the reason we can never live among you? There are too many sorrows and envies on both sides.”  
  
They rode along in silence for a short while.  
  
Boromir finally spoke, “Your pardon, I didn’t mean to offend.”  
  
“None taken. So – will you get yourself a pretty girl to plant sons in?”  
  
“I think she’ll have to have more than willing hips and a bright smile.”  
  
“Ah – you want a queen to raise your children.”  
  
“I have responsibilities, duty… but I think my brother more suited to seeing that our line continues.” A flash of serious eyes and a ready, trusting smile ran through his thoughts. “My brother…” He broke off – ‘so unlike our father, yet in matters of determination, just the same!’  
  
“My brother,” Boromir continued after a thoughtful pause, “Will make a good father one day. I am probably too hasty, too impatient…”  
  
Lórindol nodded, “Perhaps, but only experience will confirm that, and as yet you don’t know… or do you?”  
  
“No lass has brought a bundle to my father’s door,” he grinned. ‘The thought of it…’  
  
A glimpse of his father in a black rage brought a wry turn to his lips. His father reined his emotions back hard – his rage was ice rather than fire… Until he exploded into occasional violence that was generally directed at chairs and dishes – rages soon over, but devastating to his immediate surroundings. Not that he’d ever vented that destructive violence on his sons… but Boromir had a memory surface of a childhood punishment, when he was summoned and ordered to watch a close, family retainer beaten viciously with a heavy cane for allowing his misdemeanours to go un-checked.  
  
“My father taught us to be responsible for our own errors,” he said sombrely.  
  
“And what of your Horselord? He will be a king someday – does he not have to seek a queen?”  
  
“He has daughters already, but not a wife. I think he will make an arrangement one day… I can but hope that I may be a small part of it.”  
  
“Young adan, we all have to rely on hope in the end – without it we are lost.”  
Lórindol inhaled a deep breath, then reached to clap Boromir on the shoulder.  
  
“Come! Now we are young, we are free, we are warriors…! The air is bright, the woods are beautiful… the fight may not always be glorious, but we are born to live it!” He clipped Boromir’s horse across the shoulder to sting it into a trot, urging his own mount to hasten after Lindir and Gwindor, now so far ahead as to be almost out of sight.  
  
The two leading elves pulled their horses in when they heard the clatter of hooves behind them. Lórindol and Boromir raced up, hair blown wild, grinning at each other. Gwindor clicked his tongue in mild irritation at their unrestrained high spirits and set off again. The long slope ahead took them to the rise overlooking the broad vale of the Walnut Garth; he reined in. Before them, the widely spaced walnut-tree rows lead the eye to the group of truly enormous trees that crowned a small hill at the centre of the shallow valley. All looked calm and well-ordered.  
  
“We can return to the city; clearly we are not needed here. The others will bring back news of their depositions – Look! Here they come!”  
  
Gwindor broke off, smiling with obvious relief. From their vantage point, they could see in the distance four elves, two leading pack-animals, threading their way through the trees and out onto the broad avenue that led towards the rise.  
  
“We have but to wait for them, and we’ll ride back together.” Gwindor dismounted to stretch his legs, the others followed his example. Lindir searched out a water-bottle and passed it around. Soon the other mounted elves trotted up to join them.  
  
“The garth fares are well enough,” said their leader, Erellont, after they’d greeted each other, “But they have glimpsed yrech slinking around the far edge of the woods.”  
  
Gwindor nodded, “The garth is well-supplied?”  
  
“Their provisions are plentiful – though they were pleased with what we’d bought to add to their store-houses. The council feels they can defend themselves well here – and they have long ago laid down spare arms and stores within the hidden tunnels that emerge in the foothills of the mountains. They offer sanctuary to any females or children who Lord Celeborn judges should leave Caras Galadhon, and their sworn protection should the garth fall and they have to flee to the fastnesses of the peaks.”  
  
“It is good to know. I dare say that some with young ones should be encouraged to take up their offer – those and some of our injured, perhaps?”  
  
“Any that can fire a bow will baulk at that,” said Erellont.  
  
Gwindor shrugged, “Nevertheless, there are those that can’t, and sending them here accompanied by healers… They may have time to recover and yet still be able to fight eventually if…”  
  
He did not finish, but each of them completed the phrase in their own thought ‘…if Lothlorien falls.’  
  
The party remounted and spurred away through the woods. Even though it was shortly before noon, the skies above the trees were dull and thunderous. Distant flashes etched the dark clouds with cold silver above the south east, though the far off rumbles were but a distant sound, as of huge, loose-skinned drums. Lorien’s protective magic kept their air clean ‘neath the trees, but when they looked up through the branches… the sky was stained a sulphurous, yellowing grey. They shivered a little and kept their eyes ahead.  
  
“We’ll ride on until the sun sets, then break to eat,” suggested Erellont.  
  
Gwindor nodded assent, “We should rest the horses a while. I doubt we shall be back in the city before the morrow.”  
  
Overhead the noxious clouds thickened, choking away the sun’s rays, and the pale starlight far beyond.


	37. Preparations - The Third Siege of Lorien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

They settled down to ride at a steady trot where the path was clear enough among the trees, slowing to a walk when their way became barred by tangled undergrowth they must skirt around. They were still some leagues short of Caras Galadhon when the skies darkened even more as genuine night fell. Though the elves could see, their mounts were tired and hung their heads whenever the elves reined them back as they paused to see how to negotiate an obstacle in the dense forest. They continued another hour or more until Gwindor reined his horse to a stop.  
  
“Here is as good a place as any. There’s a spring nearby if we take the track that way,” said Gwindor.  
  
Boromir felt grateful for that; his back ached from swaying in the saddle over the uneven ground. The route they took back to the City of the Trees was more direct as the bird flies, but the land was uneven, rising and then falling away, so they had to constntly zig-zag up banks to regain the higher ground where the trees were less dense. Erellont, his partner Falathar, in consultation with Gwindor had privately agreed that to keep to the centre of the wood would offer such a small party as theirs more protection than galloping a faster path at the edge of the forest where there were still likely to be large bands of orcs roaming. They’d conferred privately and decided speed could be sacrificed for safety.  
  
Shortly after, they entered the small clearing, a bowl in the side of the hill through which a spring tumbled from the rocks above. The tiny fall had worn a wide trough in the smooth rock before overflowing into a small stream that ran away among the underbrush. They dismounted and allowed the thirsty horses to drink before hobbling them to crop the verdant grass in the sheltered basin. Boromir stumbled to sit against some rocks to ease his back and shoulders; he was shivering, for the night was growing cold. Lórindol saw him and murmured to Gwindor who looked across before shrugging ‘why not?’ The younger elf beckoned to Lindir and they quickly gathered some kindling – dry twigs and leaves blown under the lee of the little cliff the spring fell from. Soon they had enough to lay and light a small fire on the wide, packed earth shelf beside the spring.  
  
Falathar brought out a pan from his pack, and set water to boil for tea. Between them, they had walnuts sent from that garthh, and walnut oil to dip their bread, meat sliced from a cured ham, and sweet, dried apple slices to chew on afterwards. They had shielded the fire in a hearth of rocks they’d gathered, and seated themselves in their grey cloaks around it. It would have taken a very sharp-eyed orc to spot them in the sheltered hollow. Boromir stretched and twisted his neck, his shoulders still tight. Lórindol nudged Lindir and lifted his chin towards the man.  
  
“Well, if he sits in front of me… and I sit in front of you… we can all get some ease.”  
  
Lindir grinned. “Come hither, my _adan_ , we have something for you.”  
  
Boromir frowned a little. “Nay, don’t pout!” laughed Lindir “One good turn deserves another – you can rub Lórindol’s shoulders when I’ve finished.”  
  
Lindir gave him no choice, but shuffled over behind him and dug his fingertips into the knotted muscles of the man’s neck. Lórindol spread his legs out behind his partner and began to rub his back. Erellont and Falathar watched in mild amusement, while their two companions took their places on watch at the rim of the hollow – even here, they were not completely safe. Gwindor stared into the fire morosely. Lórindol watched him for a while before speaking quietly:  
  
“Shall I sit with you? Perhaps I can ease your ache…”  
  
The elf shook his head with a bitter smile. “No. I’ll sit with my thoughts awhile before we ride.”  
  
Boromir gave low grunts of pleasure as Lindir’s skilled fingers worked the knots from his shoulders. He relaxed into the pleasurable kneading, and tiredness began to overtake him again. He shook his head to keep himself awake, but his eyelids still drooped closed, his head nodded forward on his chest.  
  
“Let him sleep,” said Gwindor softly, “We can travel onwards when he wakes.”  
  
“He is the _adan_ Lord Celeborn favours?” asked Erellont.  
  
Gwindor nodded, “We are charged with his safety – the Lady sees he has a part to play beyond this. And he fights well… for a man. Though I’ll admit… his companion did well also against the wildmen and orcs we encountered.”  
  
“Ah… he has a partner-in-arms?” said Falathar.  
  
“A rohir,” replied Gwindor  
  
“A horse-humper…”  
  
“Keep a gentle tongue! Our Lord of Stoneland is bound to a Prince of Horses who’ll one day be a king.”  
  
Falathar bowed his head, “Your pardon… but hear… your young lordling is fast become a hedgepig!” He chuckled.  
  
Indeed, Boromir had curled over to lean against Lindir’s chest and was now gently snuffling in his sleep, much like one of the spiny forest creatures.  
  
“Let him sleep,” repeated Gwindor, “I fear he’ll find no rest when we return.”  
  
They arranged themselves around the tiny fire and took it in turns to watch or slip into reverie until a lightening beyond the clouds signified the sun had risen.  
  
A quick splash in the icy spring, a hasty breakfast, and they were away towards Caras Galadhon again. But the sun failed to warm the day, and the further they travelled the more uneasy they became. At first it was nothing tangible, but then they noticed the silence – the birds had stopped singing, or departed. Then below them, weaving through the thick undergrowth within the winding vales, they briefly glimpsed a large party of cloaked elves, heading west towards the Walnut Garth. Shrouded in the Lady’s glamour, mounted on horses with muffled hooves, pulling narrow covered carts whose wheels were also bound with leather to quiet them, they were all but invisible. Evidently Lord Celeborn had decided to take the offer and despatched some of the more vulnerable to a place of hoped-for safety in the Walnut Garth. Among them rode Tasarion, but hidden in her hooded cloak, she did not see Boromir pass by on the bluff above, nor he her.  
  
The wardens rode on in a silence broken only by their horses’ hooves cracking dry twigs – until they began to hear from far off in the distance the deep regular thumps of war-drums - coming slowly nearer all the time.  
  
“They mass again!” gasped Falathar. He spurred his horse forward and the others followed, eager not only to gain the security of the city’s trees, but also take up arms among their comrades in what may yet be their final battle.  
  
They cantered as fast as they could towards the city, weaving around traps set for the unwary, A few elves high among the branches watched them pass and sent messages ahead that riders were coming in.  
  
Within the city, grim-faced archers and armoured warriors hurried to their allotted places. Healers made ready their tents; drew water to have ready for thirst and washing wounds, laid out their salves and knives in preparation. Grooms rushed forward to take the horses and grinned delightedly at the new provision of cured pork and at the arrowheads. Gwindor rushed away immediately to find the Marchwarden, to give his report and seek a place in the forefront of the defending lines of elves; the others swiftly followed him.  
  
They found the Marchwarden with Lord Celeborn and his captains, amidst a flurry of runners delivering messages and taking instructions out to the defending elves already being despatched to their positions. Reports were coming in from the lookouts as to the strength and numbers of the advancing orcs, where they were closest and what arms they bore. Goblins were with them, driving battle-wagons pulled by huge kine. Trolls were hauling massive siege weapons towards the Golden Wood, and above them all flew one of the Nazgul on a screaming fell-beast. They massed at a distance, but did not attack. Evidently their commander wanted to gather the entire force onto Lorien’s side of the Great River before advancing the army as one to attack them.  
  
Celeborn frowned over his maps as reports came in about the orcs’ postions – they were spreading to the west in increasing numbers. They appeared to be planning an attack along a wide front in hope of spreading the defenders thinly enough to enable the orcs to breach the elvish lines.  
  
“…There is thought behind their strategy," he murmured half aloud. "If they attack in several places with heavy force, it becomes more difficult to judge where reinforcements should be sent… Now is the time I should be I three places at once!”  
  
He continued to frown at the painted counters on the maps that showed the depositions of attackers and defenders.  
  
“Perhaps you can be,” said Haldir softly.  
  
Celeborn looked up with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“I - and the Lord Boromir… we both have connection to you. Use us.”  
  
Celeborn stared at him - then shook his head.  
  
“Do not dismiss the idea so easily – we can both be your eyes and ears. You can command through us with your thoughts and wishes.”  
  
Celeborn glanced up; Boromir had arrived in the company of Lórindol and Lindir. The elf-lord turned to speak to privately to his companion.  
  
“I can not impose that on you, nor the Stone-lord either…”  
  
“But we can help you…”  
  
“You help me by being beside me. Your thoughts are my aid… that is enough.”  
  
“We could do more!”  
  
“No!” He briefly gripped Haldir’s fore-arm to temper his emphatic denial, before turning to hear the report of another newly arrived scout.  
  
“My lord,” Lindir greeted the Marchwarden with bowed head, as did Boromir and Lórindol  
  
Haldir graciously nodded acknowledgment. “How fared the garths?”  
  
“They do well.” Lindir replied, “The attacks upon the Oak Garth were repelled, and the Walnut Garth has escaped so far with little more than a skirmish on its borders.”  
  
Haldir nodded, “Lord Celeborn despatched a convoy of the young and the wounded there in the hope that its remote vale will prove some shelter.”  
  
“We glimpsed them once in passing,” said Lórindol, “But the Lady’s glamour was such that even for us they were little more than grey mists among the trees.”  
  
Boromir stood silently as their reports was given.  
  
“And they remain well supplied?” queried Haldir.  
  
“Enough to despatch back two pack-horses of cured meat and several good bags of arrow-points.”  
  
“Those we will need soon enough! There is little for you to do here – seek your captain and find a suitable post.”  
  
“The arrow-heads need fletching.”  
  
“Good enough,” said Haldir, “But keep close in case you are needed.”  
  
“Shall I go with them?” asked Boromir.  
  
“Every hand will be needed this day. Your help is appreciated.”  
  
“My hands and my sword are Lord Celeborn’s to command.” Boromir placed hand to heart and bowed formally with grace.  
  
Haldir barely hesitated before responding in the same manner, even going so far as to clasp Boromir’s shoulder briefly – a point of note for the other wardens, who knew that although the Marchwarden had dealings with men, he kept himself at a wary distance. Rumour was that old injuries received from a marauding band of Wildmen in his youth had made Haldir loathe to even touch the Secondborn, or willingly be touched by them, if he could help it. But then… this man was not as other men.  
  
“We may yet have need of them.”  
  
The Marchwarden turned back to the table, leaving the elves and man to return to the paved glade of stabling where the horses and supplies were kept. Lindir collected a bag of arrow points and an armful of shafts, Boromir carried the thongs and feathers, and Lórindol went to find another little cauldron of pitch to set the vanes. He returned not only with a steaming pot, but also, fresh bread, cheese and a pitcher of small beer, ‘to keep their strength up’ he announced cheerfully. They found themselves a small clearing slightly away from the hustle and bustle and set to. Boromir’s fingers were not as nimble as the elves', but he found he could pitch and mount the points accurately while the elves split the feathers into vanes and set them. Soon they had found their rhythm, enough that they could talk of other things while at their tasks. As Lórindol and Lindir speculated on the forces and where they would attack first, Boromir looked around, and realized that he knew this place - that he had been here before.  
  
They had camped just over there… the Fellowship… Pavilions had been erected for them – there the Hobbits had slept, and over there… he’d shared a tent with the dwarf and… Aragorn. He gasped as the memories tumble back… the Ring! He’d tried to take the Ring from Frodo! His breath hitched, his chest felt too tight to breathe. His face coloured crimson at the thought of his betrayal. He half started to rise, his body hot then icy, his fingers fumbling and almost upsetting the cauldron of pitch.  
  
“Are you well?” asked Lindir, noticing the man suddenly startle, then freeze and drop the arrow he was holding.  
  
Boromir mumbled something incomprehensible, then arched his back, “I’m stiff – I’ll just go and stretch my legs a moment…”  
  
He scrambled up hastily and stumbled away into the surrounding trees. Lórindol and Lindir glanced at each other, Lórindol shrugged.  
  
“Give him a little while. By the look on his face, he has remembered things that need thinking about in privacy. Thankfully he’s left his knife here….”  
  
“You don’t think he would harm himself?” frowned Lindir.  
  
“Who knows with Secondborn? No, I don’t think so, but something clearly plays badly on his mind. We’ll wait and watch awhile before seeking him out.”  
  
Boromir stumbled through the bushes ‘…what had he done? What had he done?’ When sure he was out of sight, the man sank to the ground at the base of a tree, his head in his hands… ‘What had he done!’ Celebmir was not here now; these were Boromir’s thoughts of shame and despair. ‘…to have dishonoured all he thought was in his nature …to have attacked a weaker one …no matter what he thought the reward!’ His face reddened at the notion in a wave of hot shame and he beat his fists on his knees. And the thought came to him ‘I can’t go back!’ …how could he face Frodo? How could he face Aragorn? …But then, Aragorn knew! Another wave of jumbled thoughts washed over him… ‘Aragorn… he had despised the ranger as a ragged nothing from a displaced line …and then, and then…’ He buried his face in his hands again. ‘They had… he had…he and Aragorn had lain together here… and he had taken comfort and pleasure in it.’  
  
He sighed and groaned aloud ‘…he had thought himself in command of those encounters… and it wasn’t so… not really. The ranger had offered friendship and more, and he had betrayed his trust!’ How could he face him? How could he face Théodred? Oh, for sure – Théo already knew!’ He brought to mind Théo's anguished face when… oh, so long ago it seemed… Aragorn had tended his wounds and Théodred had watched and guessed what had passed between them. Boromir shuddered, shot to his feet, and paced the ground – ‘it’s not that Aragorn meant nothing… No! Think, Boromir, think!’  
  
At first, he had guessed what might be had, and thought nothing of taking it, ‘let him stoop for me’, he’d thought… but then… the terrors of Moria, Aragorn’s distress at Gandalf’s fall, his own growing discomfort with the nearness of that damned ring! All had contrived to throw them together for comfort, a comfort that was sometimes near wordless, because the intimacy of another body said more than words could… There had not been between them what he and Théo shared but… there had been… something … fealty… loyalty… love… call it what you will. And he had betrayed his trust! He had let Aragorn down in the most spectacular way possible when he attacked Frodo! He’d let himself down, he’d let his brother down with that betrayal. His father… his father wouldn’t look on him again, with anything but crushing disdain! What had he done?! He sank to the ground again utterly crushed, and curled up into a tight ball of misery, hugging his knees hard to his chest, head bowed.  
  
He was barely aware of their presence until he felt the warmth as Lindir and Lórindol sat down on either side of him - so sunk in sudden black despair he didn’t even care that they found him thus. The two elves waited in silence, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Boromir, until the man finally lifted his head and wiped his wet face with the back of one hand, pushing his hair aside. None of them spoke, until eventually Boromir heaved a great shuddering sigh. Lindir put an arm around his shoulder, and Lórindol put an arm across Boromir’s back.  
  
“There is very little that can’t be made to ease by being spoken about,” Lórindol said quietly. Boromir nodded slowly, but did not speak.  
  
“And,” said Lindir lightly, “Although we are young compared to many of our brother-elves here… we are still old enough in your terms to have lived many lifetimes. I very much doubt that anything you confess will shock us”  
  
Boromir smiled wanly, but shook his head.  
  
“Speak, friend. How will you know how affronted we are if you don’t tell us this grievous deed?”  
  
“Not one deed only,” said Boromir ruefully, “I behaved without honour, I… I betrayed my friends… I…” He faltered. “They can never forgive me for what I did.”  
  
Lórindol nodded, “I see. Have you considered that, perhaps, it is you that cannot forgive your actions?”  
  
“It isn’t up to me,” blurted Boromir. “I let them down; I wasn’t strong enough, although in my pride… I thought I was!” He threw back his head, banging his skull against the tree. Lindir leaned the man forward a little.  
  
“No need to take it out on the poor tree,” he joked, “and braining yourself isn’t going to atone for anything.”  
  
“If only there was a way to put things right.” Boromir spoke through gritted teeth, trying to contain his distress.  
  
“Boromir…” Lórindol spoke slowly and soothingly, “One thing that we do know is there is very, very little in Middle-earth that cannot be put right by the right will and a generous heart – and you have those. If you have done wrong by your Horselord, believe us, we know he has long ago forgiven you. If you acted badly in battle…” He shrugged, “It is only fools who never fear.”  
  
“It wasn’t fear – it was pride. I betrayed a trust because I thought I knew better, because I thought what belonged to another should be mine. And I was wrong…”  
  
“Knowing that is half the battle, young one,” said Lórindol.  
  
“And if you know you served someone ill by doing the wrong thing that cannot be put right, then you can make at least some recompense by doing the right thing for somebody else in their time of need,” said Lindir. He paused, “…Did that make sense? Well, you know what I mean!”  
  
Boromir smiled, “Yes, I understand you.”  
  
“That’s more than I do!” laughed Lórindol getting up. “Come now, let’s finish this batch of arrows – we shall have need of them sooner rather than later, I fear.”  
  
“And I will do my best to fight worthily in your eyes,” asserted Boromir, stretching as he got to his feet.  
  
Lindir put out a hand to be hauled up. “We have no doubts of that at all.”  
  
As they returned to the clearing they found another elf looking for them with word that the Marchwarden had sent for them to attend him in Lord Celeborn’s hall. They climbed the stairs to the _flet_ , hearing as they did so the distant thud of the drums. No nearer, but now there were many more.  
  
They entered the hall and Celeborn’s attendant with the crippled hand waved them towards a curtained arras to one side. Seated at a small table covered by a map of Lorien was not only Lord Celeborn, but also Lady Galadriel; Haldir stood slightly behind his lord and to one side. Boromir felt his heart jump to his mouth. The last time he had seen her she had spoken to his thoughts and offered… he blushed and bowed his head low before her. At the edges of his mind he felt a tendril of enquiry and amusement that drifted rapidly away to be replaced by the quiet, supportive power that he recognised as Lord Celeborn. Boromir took a deep breath to calm himself… and Celebmir exhaled.  
  
“Take seats, and be at ease,” said Lady Galadriel with a courteous smile. Lindir and Lórindol bowed low, glancing at each other. For all their years in the wardenship, they were rarely in the Lady of Lorien’s presence with so few others… a thought that made them wary.  
  
“We have intelligence to pass on to you, and a task, if you are willing to consider it,” she said. “It is not a task to be considered lightly, at least not by you,” she smiled, gazed directly at the man, and his heart missed another beat.  
  
“We understand that this attack will be different. A commanding will leads this rabble of orcs, one bent on our destruction and through that the utter ruin of Lorien,” Celeborn said calmly. “Our Marchwarden,” Celeborn said formally, “has a plan that requires your assistance.”  
  
He addressed Boromir, looking him directly in the eye, while Haldir clasped his hands behind his back and stared over their heads at the curtain behind them.  
  
“The Black Easterner commands this army, and my Lady perceives his thoughts turned to my destruction as a way of leaving her vulnerable and open to attack. We have a plan to deceive him, by making him unsure of where to launch that attack. We propose that Haldir will masquerade as me. To make that even more effective it would be to our aid if you would also allow me to channel my thoughts through you, so that you spoke with my orders, and I saw with your eyes.”  
  
Celeborn paused to let the request sink in. Boromir swallowed. He was being asked to again lose himself, to give over his will and the sovereignty of his body to the other, and that thought filled him with fear. With a struggle he mastered his thoughts, realising that Celeborn had tactfully withdrawn; the mind he made up would be entirely his own. Boromir set his lips, and then nodded. The glimpse he had had of Celeborn’s thoughts hinted at the vital need to defend his lady, the mix of love and duty, and loyalty… and the buried touch of anguish that he must endanger Haldir. If the bitter choice had to be made, Celeborn must sacrifice his lover before his wife. Boromir stood, then took a step forward and went down on one knee before Lord Celeborn,  
  
“I am forever your liegeman, ready to do whatever you ask of me,” he said, and bowed his head.  
  
Lord Celeborn placed his hands on the man’s shoulders, and leaning forward, placed his lips on Boromir’s forehead in a kiss of grace.  
  
“And I accept your fealty,” he said.  
  
“Good,” said Lady Galadriel, “I know you have much to discuss, my lord and I will speak later, so now I will leave you.”  
  
They all rose to their feet as she stood, and Lindir held aside the curtain to let her pass. After she left, it was almost as if a tension was broken around the table. Celeborn reached for Haldir’s shoulder and clasped it briefly; the Marchwarden inclined his head as an unspoken thought passed between them. Even Lindir moved his hand to brush the back of Lórindol’s hand, a momentary touch of comfort. Only Boromir stood rigidly alone, until Celeborn lightly reached to take his elbow and indicated they should all sit.  
  
“We have plans to make,” he said decisively.


	38. Under Siege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

It was later, after the discussions, plans, and alternatives had been hastily argued and finally approved that Boromir found himself once again ascending to the _flet_ set aside as private quarters for Lord Celeborn. The dressing-room Boromir had shared with Tasarion had been re-arranged so that now only one bed furnished the space. Boromir loosed his belt and dropped down to sit on its edge to remove his boots and outer clothes, briefly wondering where the elf had been sent now, wondering if this dangerous plan would work, wondering if… if… his newly returned memories… his family… his… lover… would he recognise them again? Would he survive to recognise them again!  
  
But desperate times called for desperate measures; the elves were sorely out-numbered by an enemy that counted death as nothing among its minions. Their lives were cheap and easily disposed of. Lord Celeborn knew only too well that many eternal elves would be greeted by Mandos that day, and he did what he had to. To save his Lady and save his land, he acted out of love and duty, but duty had to be stronger. Preparations were made, instructions given, tasks assigned to be completed in all haste – they had a few hours grace before the black army completed its monstrous assembly, but only very few.  
  
Boromir could hear indistinct voices speaking softly from the next door chamber, Celeborn and Haldir, taking a few moments of private time together, something which might be running desperately short. Boromir lay back on the bed and tried to calm himself. A long silence fell, and gradually into that silence crept growing warmth, and Boromir felt, rather than heard, himself called to rise and come to them. He entered the adjoining room; the two elves, stripped to shirt and leggings and bare-footed, stood shoulder to shoulder facing slightly inwards, each holding out an arm, hand spread in welcome. The very air was charged with an intensity that almost crackled around them. He saw, as he stepped forward into their embrace, their eyes, at first downcast… glowed like molten silver under the half-veiling lids. They wound their arms about him and each other, and he took hold of each of them as, stooping slightly, the elves leant to rest head to head with the man.  
  
Boromir took a deep breath, an involuntary gasp as he felt their touch through his thin shirt and all of Arda seemed to move while they remained a pool of stillness at its centre. Deeper and deeper Boromir sank into the whirling brightness behind his closed eyes. At first he thought he must have struggled, but the elves supported him. He felt their arms about him, felt their warm bodies press against him at rib and hip, felt the sheer ancient power of one, the deep, calming reassurance of the other… and was unable to tell which came from which… Finally secure, he gave himself to their union without thought, or fear, or holding back.  
  
And all at once… he was free! He knew their intertwined bodies stood firm, leaning into each other, a cradle of warmth and flesh, but his _fea_ leapt on high and whirled up and up, for it seemed he saw for the first time with such clarity, and far, far above were Varda’s lights, bright as diamonds on velvet… and oh, he longed to touch them! But in the instant he felt that keen, vaulting joy, he also felt the weight of years beyond his ken. They did not weigh him down, but he looked back and back and back as if through an avenue among ancient trees. Where before his vision would have blurred and become hazy, not allowing him to perceive the far off details, now he saw, still sharp and clear, events that happened before the Stone Lords had raised their city below the ship-walled mountain, before the star-shaped isle was inundated, before its ruined people claimed the southern lands and sailed up the great river. Boromir was curled up and sleeping somewhere distant, and his dreams were strange – ‘They’ were a new being… and their thoughts were one….  
  
The luminescent air danced around them, charged and sparkling, as they slowly dropped their arms and stepped apart. This three-bodied lord glowed brilliantly, his pale fire a new star, his birth a new dawn – he/we looked at ourselves… and we/he smiled. One thought now controlled them, but control was too strong a word… ‘our bodies’ moved as one impulse occurred to all three… for words were no longer needed.  
  
They/we dressed each other, with their/our helping hands, in Lord Celeborn’s padded shirts and armour; the man being smaller wore older armour, hastily retrieved from almost forgotten storage, armour that had been new before first our Lady, so young and beautiful, filled with fire, looked on a young lord barely come to his full growth. Inlaid with mithril and of curious design, nevertheless… it soon felt comfortable on our back, and our body remembered its weight and contours as our arms flexed inside the overlapping sheets of shaped steel on leather. We were to wear identical cloaks of Lorien’s grey, and our helms bore our insignia – the silver tree. Buckling on our swords, we left the chamber and strode out to the long stair, descending to what may yet be our last battle…  
  
By the time the base of the great stair was reached, Celeborn had adjusted and refined his thoughts so that one was still ‘one’, but three moved separately, Lord Celeborn, Lord Haldir and Lord Celebmir, for Boromir watched as though at a far distance. They now moved and spoke without that uncanny unison that had made three hands reach for each buckle as they dressed. Now they were one, but distinct and able to make choices, while still knowing thoroughly and absolutely the mind of the others. Words were not needed, for what one saw, the others could also see, even hear and feel, but Celeborn made them conduits, not slaves. Three groups of trusted wardens waited for them, three guardianships for their Lord, all knowing the desperate subterfuge with which they hoped to confuse their enemy. The Master of Lorien took his place before them, his soul-mates at either shoulder.  
  
“We will each take charge of a portion of our line. We know the enemy has given word that our destruction will bring swift victory and will secure reward and riches to the one bearing our head to their commander – this will not happen!”  
  
The waiting wardens smiled grimly.  
  
“We will confound his plans, but – should one of us fall, bear his body away if you can in the hope of prolonging our subterfuge. We must stand. Lothlorien must stand – lest all that’s good and fair be swept away into horror and blackness. And there is one final instruction we give you – should any of us be utterly overwhelmed by the _yrech_ , with no hope of escape – you must dispatch us, though it takes your own life… We must not be captured alive – it would be the downfall of all.”  
  
The wardens glanced at each other, shifting uncomfortably. Haldir spoke.  
  
“We do not give this order lightly. It must be obeyed. You all know us, but our faces will be scarved and our Lady’s glamour upon us – note our helms and armour. Only at the very last resort will our Lady’s husband come among you…” He broke off abruptly, and the three Celeborns paused in stillness for a moment.  
  
“We will fight, but we will be in the position of command in the rearguard,” Lord Celeborn announced finally.  
  
The honour-guards of elves nodded, whispering among themselves as they stirred and gathered their weapons to readiness. From across the glade Lady Galadriel approached with her most trusted ladies around her. Gone were their silks and embroidered gowns; all were clad in plain grey skirts and supple leather coats, some with bows slung at their shoulders, the Lady's own guardians. The gathered marchwardens bowed in greeting. Lady Galadriel stepped forward and greeted each of her lords with a filial kiss on both cheeks, before pausing before Celeborn.  
  
“We will all do as we must this day. Know that I understand your pain…”  
  
He kissed her lightly on the lips to silence her. “There will be no pain. Unless all fall away to utter ruin… and even then, we will finally meet in Mandos, even if the sojourn there is with no hope of return since our Golden Wood is no more.”  
  
Haldir’s eyes gazed straight ahead at some distant place, his softly glowing face without expression, carved of illuminated marble; Celebmir watched, detached, as if from some few steps away, though he stood near enough to smell her perfumed hair. Lady Galadriel nodded.  
  
“I love you,” Celeborn whispered, “I love you for who you are, for what you are, and even if this day our parting comes earlier than we might have thought or hoped… “  
  
“Hush!” She spoke without words, “We two know what we are to each other. Our _feas_ have danced together among the stars… I would not ask for this sacrifice were it not that this may be our final stand against the Dark One. If this day our light should fail and go out… there will never again be brightness in Lothlorien.”  
  
Celeborn raised her hand to his lips, clasped it in his two hands and kissed her fingers.  
  
“We know,” he said out loud.  
  
Time slipped into a haze of orders given, of lines of archers, armoured elves with long swords, ranged helms and upright lance-heads, leaf-shaped and glinting in the light from fires lit by the healers for heating water to clean knives, and wounds… The sun, shrouded in ominous clouds, slipped down the sky. Finally, the horns of the lookouts blew with clear, trilling notes– the enemy was advancing.  
  
 _Doom, doom, doom, doom…_ the black drums of Dol Guldor muttered a death knell for Lorien’s elves. _Doom, doom, doom…_ until the sullen mutter became a roar as the advancing tide of filth blotted out the ground under a seething, unholy darkness as far as the eye could see. Lines of waiting elves stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the trees. Over their heads the first flight of arrows arced across the sky, silver-grey threads that whistled and thrummed, eager to find their targets. The leading rows of orcs wavered. Many fell, but the momentum did not waver; the army trod its dead and dying into the earth beneath it. _DOOM, DOOM, DOOM..._ thundered the war-drums, now joined in the chorus of despair by the dull hooting of brazen trumpets, and the screaming mass of the front ranks erupted towards the Golden Wood in a running wave of malice, driven like scum on the water before a black wind.  
  
The defending elves poured arrows into the air until the darkening sky dizzily resembled a streaming waterfall of deadly, shafted steel. The orcs fell, or stumbled, or tried to flee from the raining death, but their task-masters cracked whips, forcing them to face the trees and keep running. Some very few that were fool-hardy enough to run berserk and shrieking into the sheltering woods were cut down by the waiting lines of sword-wielding warriors. Behind the first lines of fear-maddened berserkers, row upon row of snarling orcs strode forward, emboldened by the presence of huge trolls pushing siege-engines forward.  
  
Celebmir signalled the archers among the trees to bring down the trolls in front of his position. Howls and screeches showed where the elvish arrows found the mark. Abruptly, fearsome drawn out animal howls filled the air, over-powering the thundering drums – ‘wargs, they had warg-riders!’ The evil stinking beasts galloped clumsily but swiftly along the line, flinging smoking pots of fire that broke and sent flaming, sticky oil over the trees. The foul conflagration consumed green leaves and branches like bone-dry tinder. Soon whole trees were ablaze and elves had to leap for their lives to escape the roaring flames.  
  
The lines of elves had to withdraw or risk being consumed by the fires. A young, leafy beech tree below Celebmir’s vantage point fell sideways with a sickening sound of tearing wood, taking another tree down with it that also caught alight. A brazen horn blew, and ugly helms twitched to see where a warg-mounted commander pointed – at Celebmir and his guard standing on a grass knoll. The flow of the enemy faltered as they turned to concentrate their advance on him. Some distance along the wooded border, another angry horn blared and the army wavered, unsure whether to contradict the first order.  
  
‘We have been seen,’ thought Celebmir.  
  
‘We too…’ thought Haldir, ‘though they hesitate to choose between us.’  
  
“Attack!” breathed Celeborn, his eyes glowing silver under half-closed lids.  
  
From his vantage point Lord Celeborn could see some distance along his border, but his ‘other’ selves made his vision even broader. Archers strained to send arrows high over the heads of their advancing warriors, hoping to cut off the next ranks of orcs and halt their progress so their comrades could fight unhindered. The elves marched forward, only dividing their lines where fire made it impossible to pass. At a run they descended on the front ranks of the orcs, their weapons flashing bright in the gathering darkness. The elves had the desperation of the threatened and the anger of the affronted, their faces blazing with pale fire. The clash of arms rang shuddering into the air as the two forces met, light to dark. Some of the black horde tried to seek protection behind the corpses of their comrades, but they were goaded forward by their sergeants’ whips, or cut down by the bright wrath of the elves.  
  
A squadron of heavily armoured axe-wielders elbowed aside the orcs sheltering around the siege-engines and lumbered forwards to smash into the scattered lines of elves before Celebir,  
  
“Pull back,” he shouted to his ensign, who bore a horn.  
  
Silvery notes called the elves to edge back and reform. Some distance below him Celebmir could see Gwindor among the leading group of attacking elves; in his wroth he shone brightly with inner-light and the orcs fell back before his deadly, swinging blade. His comrades urged him back and reluctantly he retreated, but too slowly, allowing a gap to come between them. A warg-rider spotted the opportunity and spurred his mount forward to sling-shot a fiery pot at the elves. It broke on the ground nearby and flung a spray of oily flames that soaked and clung to their leathers and armour. They screamed, high-pitched and anguished as the fire bit into them. Their comrades rushed forward to grab them as they staggered wildly, engulfed in flames, rolling them to the ground to smother the fire as best they could while others held off two dozen crowing orcs emboldened by the elves’ screams. All the orcs died.  
  
Lórindol and Lindir were amongst Celebmir’s guard. They too recognised Gwindor leading the elves out to battle, but they couldn’t see him among the retreating warriors carrying their wounded with them, though the dead had to be left where they fell.  
Above their heads, a huge rock slammed into a mighty oak and brought the upper branches shuddering down with a rending sound that scraped the nerve-endings. One of the trolls had wound up the siege-engine and let rip against the wood. Surrounded by orcs, the beast lumbered to wind the mechanism again. This time they had a huge iron pot that doubtless contained more of the evil sticky oil.  
  
“We must stop him – save the archers, the trees!”  
  
Celebmir raised his sword and the charge gathered around him and launched itself forward, weaving through the remaining trees and skirmishing elves to attack the group surrounding this engine. Other trolls at a distance down the attacking line cowed under the hail of arrows from determined archers, straining shoulders and arms to launch deadly shafts as swiftly as they could. Celebmir and his elves pressed forward, their great two-handed swords slicing a path of glittering destruction before them.  
  
The man knew the sword should feel awkward in his hands, but he swung it with practised ease and with each swinging blow his ardour for battle grew and his form glowed. The avenging elves poured out of the wood screaming challenges. Incandescent in form and rage, their bright eyes glittering with righteous anger, they swept away the orcs, terrifying the troll into fleeing before them.  
  
“My Lord, my Lord! Mind we don’t advance to far!” shouted Lórindol.  
  
“We must destroy the engine!” commanded Celebmir, “Set it afire!”  
  
Lindir stooped quickly and grabbed a still smouldering torch from the dead hand of an orc and tossed it towards the trail of greasy oil leaking from the pot in the siege-engines cradle.  
  
“Back! Reform!” yelled Celebmir, and the elves sprinted away for the cover of the trees as another wave of orcs surged forward to repulse them.  
  
The engine exploded, showering the advancing orcs in flames and burning splinters. Howling, the blazing orcs ran among their fellows setting more alight until barbed arrows and blades were turned on them by their comrades and they were hacked down.  
  
The retreating elves ran through the strewn forms of their fallen comrades.  
  
“Bring all those you can!” commanded Celebmir.  
  
The wounded were helped to struggle back, but the dead could not be treated with respect; still, rather their bodies should be piled within the screening trees than left for the ravaging orcs to desecrate. A number of elves stooped to gather the bodies of their dead comrades, defended by encircling swords who fought off the enemy, howling its displeasure at being deprived of its prey. Not all could be retrieved, but they did what they could. One corpse, his clothing in blackened tatters, his face hideously burned beyond recognition, groaned aloud as he was dropped to the forest floor to roll on his side. His burnt helm fell off and dark hair tumbled out onto the scuffed ground. Voices shouted for water and healers as those nearest struggled to gather him up and take him to safety.  
  
His head lolled over the back over the arms of the two carrying him.  
  
“Eru! It’s Gwindor!” gasped Lórindol,  
  
“What? How can you be sure…? His face…” Lindir winced.  
  
“His hair… the mourning plaits. I did that myself! It’s him!”  
  
Lórindol raced to Celebmir’s side where he stood purposefully scanning his surroundings.  
  
“Lord,” blurted Lórindol, “It is Gwindor – he is terribly hurt.”  
  
Celebmir’s gaze followed the pointing hand to where the blackened elf was being tended with cold cloths by a newly arrived healer. Celebmir strode across, his breath hitched to see the raw, ruined elf.  
  
"Will he survive?"  
  
The healer glanced up and shook his head.  
  
“Take him straight to my Lady’s tents. Go! As swiftly as you can!” commanded Celebmir.  
  
Two elves with the healer brought a stretcher, placing the fallen elf onto it as tenderly as haste allowed, and set off at a fast trot into the deeper woods.  
  
Beyond the trees more orcs trudged forward, and behind them lumbered the giant kine pulling wagons filled with yet more devilries.  
  
‘So many…’whispered the thought in Celebmir’s mind, and he saw with other eyes the destructive force that bore relentlessly down on them. ‘So many…’


	39. The Siege Continues: A Light Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Twilight became darkness, but the plain beyond the borders of Lorien’s green forest burned fitfully, swathed in drifting, rancid smoke and lit by the pinpricks of flickering red-orange flames, torches held by minions of the Dark Lord. Under the trees, more flames flared to brightness, but these were the pale luminous fires of ancient elves glimmering forth, driven to wroth and rage by the attack against all they held good and fair. They sent wave after wave of shining arrows arcing across the dark skies as the ghastly regiments of Dol Guldor pressed forward relentlessly, inching nearer and nearer over ground they bought dearly from the shining elvish defenders – but nearer all the while they came.  
  
Lórindol paused for breath, his shoulders heaving with the effort to control his tortured lungs. Black blood spattered his armour, his face; he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, but merely smeared the gore into streaks of darkness across his pale skin, joined by trickles of red from the spear tip that had nicked his cheek-bone leaving a bloody furrow up to his temple. Beside him Lindir smashed his sword hilt into the helm of an onrushing orc before sweeping the blade around in one supple movement to back-slash the head from the body.  
  
“You are hurt?” he gasped.  
  
Lórindol shook his head, scattering drops of blood.  
  
“A scratch – and you?”  
  
Lindir’s sleeve under the overlapping steel plates was soaked with streaks of blood.  
  
He shook his head, “A shaft – but only the tip penetrated.”  
  
Lórindol saw now where the other elf’s shoulder armour was buckled and torn.  
  
“Nothing is broken – only the skin tore when I wrenched it free.” Lindir gasped.  
  
“My Lord…?”  
  
“Here.”  
  
Celebmir wielded his blade with dazzling speed, sending another orc back to the foul pit that spawned it.  
  
Among the enemy hordes there was a sudden, ominous silence, passing as a ripple, subdued by stagnant water. All at once a foul breeze wafted over the elves – and a sudden terrible dread came over them, an invisible fog of despondency that hung almost palpable in the night sky. On the back of a screaming fell-beast, Khamûl, the Black Easterner, flew out to command his forces. Not able to fly over Lorien’s protected trees, he skimmed along the boundary as his beast shrieked its own unease and fear of the unseen, impenetrable barrier created by the Lady’s magic. The direful presence unsettled the elves, but from the very ground beneath their feet, the lady’s power seeped up to give them succour and reassurance – ‘He cannot pass!’  
  
Spiralling upwards, the Nazgul, tested the bounds of Galadriel’s power, but there was no way that he could circumvent her borders. Lorien’s golden woods were protected by the Lady, and to successfully breach her defences, she must fall! He hauled the reins and the fell-beast veered away, keening horribly, to the pain and distraction of those below.  
  
Beast and wraith flew the length and back of the onslaught, judging where next to move. Bright shapes of pale fire shifted on the ground below, blurring into lines as the elves formed themselves to attack, though here and there some flamed brighter with their mighty wrath. Again Khamûl circled, probing the air, feeling the buffeting of the winds that made him shy away from the impassable space above the trees. Then he spied a particular brightness at the very edge of the hazardous forest. ‘The Elf-Lord – He would have him!’ Khamûl spiralled down, the beast slipping through the air with great sweeps of its foul wings sending gusts of noxious air over the battlefield below. His slaves listened to his wordless call: ‘That way. Kill him!’ and turned their focus onto the shining elf-lord, his form coruscating with pale fire.  
  
Haldir, his own innate strength enhanced with his lord’s ancient power, battled on. He and his marchwardens led a phalanx of stalwart elves against the dark forces their attackers still mustered. Deep into the fray, consumed by the white-hot fever of combat - suddenly, Haldir realised in his fury he had over-reached; the orcs who had fought furiously had unexpectedly fallen back… he had fallen into a trap! Warg-riders closed in behind him and his guards, axe-wielding goblins trooped up from the other side… he was corralled and away from the protective shield of the Lady. The instant he realised this, Celeborn and Celebmir also knew.  
  
“Noooooo….!” Celeborn’s shout echoed through their minds.  
  
“You cannot!” cautioned Galadriel, her thoughts a command not a request; not made by his wife and consort, but by the most powerful Elf-queen, the last of the great Noldor in Middle-earth: “You can not go t…!”  
  
Her thoughts boomed through his head, but were abruptly cut off from Celebmir, and he knew Celeborn censored the rumbling power that they all still felt shivering the air. She would not be disobeyed – that life might be precious, but there was much more than one life at stake in this battle… Celebmir knew where Haldir was besieged, knew what he must do – his lord had turned his thoughts momentarily from him and now he made his own decision. Celebmir shouted a command to the captain of the archers:  
  
“Draw back Erellont. Falathar - hold the line!”  
  
Then he signalled his ensign, and the horn trilled the notes to rally his guard to him. Pointing his sword, they set off at a run. The orcs to their fore set up a triumphant howl, thinking themselves the victors. They fell upon the elves with renewed vigour but as storm-lashed water on ancient rocks, they might wear them away, but could not smash them. The orcs did not break the elvish lines. More archers came from behind them, grey ladies with strong, slender bows; their aim was deadly and true. Not a one of Galdriel’s companions, having spent so long at the practise butts during peaceful times, missed her mark – every arrow lodged in flesh, every shaft killed an attacker.  
  
Haldir and his valiant guard were beleaguered on all sides under fierce and unremitting attack. From under the trees elves tried to beat their way to him, but were driven back by the warg-riders, scything their way through the warriors who attempted to storm the backs of the encircling goblins wielding battle-axes. Archers who climbed trees were shot at, or the trees fired beneath them by the slingshots of oil hurled by great trolls, while nearby, two of the giant beasts wound up a mighty siege machine to catapult more missiles into the ranks of the elves. Desperately Haldir fought on with his wardens, back-to-back in a lessening group as his comrades fell prey to the many ruthless, bloody axes surrounding them.  
  
The Marchwarden was not diminished, and yet – he could not feel his lord’s thoughts, either of them. Though he felt his strength, there was a mask between them. Desperation edged towards despair, when suddenly he saw a brilliant white light hurtling through the trees – he was come! Renewed, Haldir steeled himself to fight on: though help was at hand, the mounted Nazgul returned to wheel overhead, casting gloom and piteous despondency in a sinking black cloud that sapped the will of the near-exhausted elves. Now they fought with tears on their cheeks, their pale fire dimmed in the night.  
  
Celebmir fought his way through the goblins; the wargs cringed before the brilliance of his flame. Though whipped on by their riders, they would not attack the screaming white fiends who ran full pelt with their long swords high, hacking all down in front of them. Even the great Khamûl, second in command of the Ring-wraiths, covered his eyes before this second sun, and his beast veered away into the night. Celeborn poured his _fea_ into the man’s body, casting aside any thoughts of damage – the man had thought ‘take me’ and the elf-lord had not hesitated. Celebmir snarled with Celeborn's unchecked wrath, his body glowing, livid with unnatural fire as his eyes blazed with the fell-light of the elf-lord’s rage. Nothing stood before him and lived – nothing! Haldir was in his sight, separated by a few dozen steps; the Marchwarden paused, looked at the rushing figure, and smiled briefly… then dropped to his knees, a look of utter surprise on his face. He swayed for a moment, gazing around seemingly in appalled disbelief, and then fell forward - a battle-axe embedded in his back.  
  
“Aaaggghhhhh…!” Celeborn screamed aloud in horrified anguish at what he saw, and what he felt, his own back seemingly hacked by fire. Celebmir covered the distance between them, the goblins falling back before the mighty elves, blazing with fell light, screaming as they ran. Celeborn sank to his knees and spread his arms wide, howling his wild despair to the night sky. Celebmir sank to his knees and spread his arms wide to gather up the fallen lord – and then, in that instant… it was Lord Celeborn who cradled his beloved. All thought, but that he put from him, all notion but that Haldir should not, could not, would not die… Haldir would not leave him… He would not allow it!  
  
Celebmir was detached, thrust aside by the elf-lord; it was as if he had stepped back a distamce. He watched his own body move, but it seemed as if it was from a place behind his own shoulder, as Celeborn gathered his lover fiercely to his chest. The Master of Lorien stood, lifted Haldir in his arms, and strode back towards the trees, taking his heart, his soul-star to safety.  
  
And for a long dangerous moment the elves wavered. The battle had unaccountably shifted and unconsciously they shifted too, taking first one step back, then another. The circling Nazgûl felt their fear and capitalised on it – his slaves heard his command ‘let the trolls attack’. One by one their overseers received the command; they goaded the beasts forward to gather up great iron-studded clubs from the siege-carts. The trolls slouched forward with huge clumsy strides, and as they gathered in twos and threes to move towards the elvish lines, their stamping feet made the earth shudder underfoot – and the elves unconsciously fell back another step.  
  
On his vantage point on the hill, Celeborn’s body knelt silently, head drooping, arms at his side; at a distance away near the border it was Celeborn’s _fea_ that cradled Haldir’s now sleeping spirit within him and refused to let it go. It might have been an illusion, but Celebmir seemed to have grown in stature; now he _was_ Lord Celeborn. Commanding a swift horse bought to him, he vaulted onto its back, had Haldir’s still, limp body passed up to him, and spurred to his Lady's tents.  
  
The trolls advanced, brushing aside the sharp arrows that pained and distracted them, goaded on by the whips and cruel spears of their overseers. Behind them the ugly mass of slavering orcs crept nearer.  
  
Lady Galdriel was there to meet him, her hair streaming in the unnatural wind that crackled around her in a whirling vortex.  
  
“Give him back to me, and I will give you Lorien!” Celeborn’s demand thundered in her thoughts.  
  
“He is not mine to give!” she rumbled back, her thoughts ringing through his mind  
  
The ground between them shivered. Crackling air wheeled about them, raising their hair into streaming banners that lashed around the forms of the two contending elves as they sought to dominate the interchange.  
  
“Find a way! If you love me, find a way!”  
  
“And how much do you love Lorien?” She demanded.  
  
“Not enough if he is not in it!”  
  
The ground shook. Nearby elves stepped back from the power that scintillated around them, straining the air so they felt it run through their bodies to sink down into the ground.  
  
“You have the Ring of Adamant – use its power to heal him.” Celeborn’s light blazed through the man’s body, and that of the elf held across his arms.  
  
“He is not Lorien.”  
  
“No, but I am – through me, you can channel the power of the Golden Wood. Raise it. Bind me to Arda, and I will stay forever!”  
  
“And what of the man?”  
  
“I agree.” Celebmir pushed the thought to the fore. “Use us.”  
  
The Lady nodded slowly. She reached out to join her forearms with Celebmir’s in supporting Haldir’s body, and together they slowly knelt, placing the limp, still bleeding elf on the ground between them. She spread her arms wide, passing her hands palm down back and forth over the Marchwarden’s body. After a few moments soft, golden-green light shimmered up from the ground as a blue-white light glowed from the finger of her hand. In complex patterns the two interwove, dancing and swooping, widening until all three were encased inside an intricate web, a cage of light that brightened, brightened, brightened until none could gaze upon it. Then with a great rushing noise, the light plunged down, through Haldir’s body and on back into the ground – the elf gasped in agony; his eyelids fluttered.  
  
“See that he sleeps…” Celeborn murmured as his _fea_ withdrew, slipping back to his own body a league away at the border.  
  
Galadriel muttered a spell of healing and Haldir immediately relaxed into mercifully deep sleep. At a signal some of her maidens rushed forward, both to catch Celebmir as he slumped to the ground and to ease Haldir onto a stretcher to be carried into the healers' tents. Galadriel knelt, passed her hand over Celebmir’s face, her thoughts probing to find the essence of Boromir deep inside him.  
  
“That was well done, prince of the Stone-land.”  
  
“I… I am no prince,” his thoughts faltered.  
  
“You are to he who loves you. You are to the Elf-stone…”  
  
“But… Before… You read me… you know I am not worthy…”  
  
“You were always worthy. It was you who did not know your worth… or rather you doubted it… Sleep now, little one, rest in dreams and be soothed.”  
  
Boromir sighed… and Celebmir, utterly exhausted, every muscle screaming with fatigue, opened his eyes to stare into the eyes of the Lady of the Golden Wood.  
  
“Ah… I see you have been graced with a remembrance of this encounter. My Lord has left an accidental mark.”  
  
She stroked the man’s brow lightly in wonder, for now in his hair was a white blaze, a shining lock of pure silver-white, a piece of Silver-tree that would never leave him. Galadriel offered him a cup of the water drawn from her well; he felt the energy subtly ripple through him as he drank the icy draught. She stood up, resting a hand on his shoulder for him to remain seated.  
  
At a distance, Celeborn too stood upright, and his anxious guardians gasped in relief. Swiftly he took in the scene: the trolls were doing terrible damage. They had come together to focus their attack towards the knoll where he stood above the battle. Elves fought valiantly, but were being forced back, leaving behind the crumpled, fallen bodies of their slain.  
  
“My Lady – now is the time!”  
  
“My Lord – I am with you!”  
  
A deep, resonant rumble, which started far below the ground jangled through their bones; too deep a note to hear, though it could be felt in every sinew. The trolls hesitated, their masters paused; the wargs whimpered and turned to bolt, cringing backwards no matter how cruelly their riders hauled on their bridles - until they too were chilled by the powerful resonance that rattled their teeth in the gums, and they let the beasts have their head to carry them away from the combat.  
  
Celeborn and the elves stood. Galadriel held up her arms, fingers spread wide. Her face grew grim and fell and she seemed to grow hugely in stature. Mighty and terrible she was, filled with dread, and all who looked upon her drew back, or looked away in despair, for none could meet her baleful eyes.  
  
The once solid earth beneath the trolls shifted as water seeped up to flood the ground, turning into a sodden quagmire under their feet. Suddenly, a great, powerful jet of water erupted from a newly gaping fissure, blasting a troll into the air with its force. Rocks, soil, boulders cannoned out of the ground, propelled by fearsome blasts of water – Nenya, working its wroth within its element. Fearful now, the orcs checked their advance, and then began to shuffle backwards despite the bellowed curses and flailing whips. More jets of water, raised from the springs beneath the ground of Lorien by the Ring of Adamant, bowled them over, rolling them back in disarray. Rocks and boulders, their water-borne flight from the earth exhausted, fell unforeseen among the confused and terrified hordes, flattening, breaking, crushing without warning, save the sudden ghastly thud of landing on cringing bodies, splattering black blood over the ripped and riven earth.  
  
Celeborn had his horns signal the advance; out of the trees his archers came forth to fire into the terrified marauders. Those that could escape fled, only to be picked off by archers as they passed across the tree-line. Those who tried to stand were cut down, either by rocks, or the engulfing slides of mud and earth that rolled forward even though there was no slope to guide them. The orcs wavered; then fled before the relentless waves of mud and rocks that gathered strength and rose above their heads to crash and crush them.  
  
Those that got as far as the Anduin were seized up and taken by the roaring water that surged over the banks to drag them back into the now murky depths, bowling them along the bottom to drown and bury them at one and the same time. The air cracked with thunder, lightening lanced across the sky, and the black army drained away from Lorien’s borders like water from a broken cup.  
  
It was not long before the dimmed sun rose, and later, rain fell to wash away the black blood of orcs and the red blood of elves from the trampled grass and ruined earth.  
  
Celeborn’s forces strode out to finish any skulking orc they found hiding among the soaked and smouldering ruins of the siege-machines. The army sent against them by Dol Guldor was defeated and scattered; the Black Easterner, Khamûl, was fled with the morning light. Now they could survey the carnage of the assault, now they could count the cost and find it high, far too high in lives of elves lost. Now their hearts sang, first in lamentation, and then for revenge. Dol Guldor could be left to stand no longer! They would have it torn down stone by stone, if they had to do it with their bare hands!  
  
Among the tents of Lady Galadriel and her healers, Haldir was tended. His dreams were troubled and fevered, but his back was healed, the still fevered flesh unmarked save for a jagged white line as though of an aging scar. Celebmir slept deeply, exhausted beyond the endurance of men. A lathered horse, ridden hard and long, arrived, skidded to a halt in a flurry of sparking hooves, but before it stood still, an elf with a scarred throat leapt from its back and ran through the wind-curtains of the encampment calling a name. A healer grabbed his arm and guided him to the one he sought – Gwindor. Alive by the Lady’s own skill, his damaged face bandaged in healing silk with her own hands; he lay still, in a drugged sleep, kept away from awareness by heavy doses of poppy. Aerandir had come when Gwindor’s _fea_ had called out to him in anguish – now they would be together, as one.  
  
Celeborn looked down on Haldir’s as he stirred fitfully in his sleep. His lady touched his shoulder lightly, and he turned to her. They walked away under the trees before speaking mind to mind.  
  
“You know I will go,” she murmured.  
  
“You were always going to leave – sometime.”  
  
She nodded, “If the Valar allow – I will return to Valinor…”  
  
“Where I have never been, nor wished to…”  
  
“I would have saved him…” she said.  
  
“And I would never have let you fall.”  
  
They smiled at each other and kissed, embracing both with their arms and their hearts. They stood entwined for many moments before slowly stepping apart.  
  
“We still have much to do,” she said aloud.  
  
Celeborn nodded, “We will lament those who have passed, see to the healing of our injured, and then…”  
  
“And then – we will march to break the power of Dol Guldor once and for all!”


	40. After the Siege: Returning Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

After the Siege: Returning Memories  
  
Lord Celeborn refused to allow the healers to give Haldir the heavy doses of poppy-juice a near-fatal wound like his would normally require. He knew how much his lover loathed, and feared, the feeling of helplessness and loss of control – a leftover from an early experience at the hands of some Wildmen who captured him when he was still young in years. Instead, they used a light draught of numbing herbs that made the senses drift, leaving him painless, but still aware. Celeborn continued to cradle Haldir’s _fea_ with his own until the Marchwarden drifted into sleep. There was much to do; Celeborn was torn between overseeing the disposal of the orc corpses and the proper burial of their own dead, along with seeing to the deposition of urgent supplies and weapons, and supervising new deployments of wardens to reinforce the more distant borders against the skirmishing bands of the enemy still bold enough to attack the Golden Wood.  
  
Most of the tattered remnants of the dark army were heading for the mountains, to make their own fastnesses were they might. The river still refused to let them cross back to Dol Guldor, and those that sullenly tracked south and west were slaughtered by either the remaining _éoreds_ guarding the Mark, or if they made it to the environs of Fangorn, the Ents and their _huorns_ who gave no quarter to their bitter enemies. While the wounded elves were given time to rest, many of the other warriors joined with the elves not directly involved with the battle, and now sought to cleanse their realm of the foulness perpetrated by the enemy. They dragged off the orcs, goblins and warg corpses to be burnt well beyond their trees, broke up the wains and siege-wagons for kindling, and used the remaining stores of slimy oil they found to set the fires blazing.  
  
Where the earth had been rent by the underground waters at Nenya’s command, no greenness or soil was left, only great rocks and huge boulders planted immovably in heavy clay. In the deepest, broadest hollow the geysers had dwindled to become gently bubbling springs that were gradually filling the great basin with fresh water. Around it, spreading along the borders of the wood on either side, the lesser holes conveniently made fresh grave-pits. The honoured dead who had given their lives for the sake of Lórien were interred there; many were laid in each fissure, to be cradled for eternity by their charmed land.  
  
In days to come, the grass would creep back to clothe the bare earth, and the low, uneven mounds would become covered with _uilos_ , the white Star-flower those of Rohan call Simbemynë – Evermind. Above them would grow many, many white-barked Birch trees, slender and graceful, their delicate leaves spin in the wind; with every breeze that touches them they flash like tiny wind-blown silken scarves, or bright eyes shining. The great hollow would became a broad, still pool of clear water that some would come to call Galadriel’s Looking Glass. Though in the years after her departure it would more commonly become known as Silvermere; a place given over to the woodland creatures for no man would ever build a house in that wood. Though many would go there to admire its graceful beauty, and listen to the gentle voices of the wind in the dancing leaves… none could feel comfortable dwelling there.  
  
Gwindor’s lodging among the healers was near to Haldir’s, for he was a renowned warrior himself, and friend to both the Marchwarden and Lord Celeborn; the Lady herself tended his heavily bandaged face. He was kept stupefied by large doses of poppy, especially when the Lady unwound the healing silks, soaked in a poultice of herbs pounded to mulch with the water from her well, and applied fresh ones to the raw flesh of his face. She had them make him a mask, _mithril_ hammered to such fineness as to be almost as supple as the silk she used; his face, though healing, would need protection for months to come. All the time Aerandir stayed by him; helping the Lady with his bandages, tending the lesser burns on his body with salves, washing him, spooning water between his swollen lips, and talking to him softly, or singing very low. He rarely left the injured elf’s side, unless he was forced away by the healers to get food and rest for himself. It was Aerandir's face that Gwindor first saw when they allowed the poppy to release him from its grasp, and though Gwindor could not smile, the clasp of their hands one with the other said much between them.  
  
And Boromir? Boromir slept… and slept. He needed no poppy, his body completely drained of all energy by the experience of containing Celeborn’s _fea_ , and sleep was its best method of renewing itself. He too was watched by Lady Galadriel and the healers, but apart from soothing him with cool cloths if he twisted too restlessly in his dreams, they let him be; let his spirit repair itself and grow within him.  
  
Two days after the siege ended, the lowering, clouded skies in the east were suddenly rent by a huge explosion. A vivid light flashed across the entire sky, though the dreadful boom of the enormous blast did not reach the Wood until many moments later. When it arrived, shuddering through the air, the ground shuddered under their feet; a ripple through the very bedrock of Arda that made everything shiver as it passed. A great clouded column swelled up and up into the skies, then a wind caught it and blew the darkness away. Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel both knew the cause instantly – the Ring, the One Ring, the bane of their long lives was gone – and with its passing… Sauron was no more! And in that moment was both joy and sorrow, for with the destruction of the Great Enemy and the One Ring, the lesser rings also lost their power. Without Nenya, the enchantment of the Golden Wood could not hold. Soon would come a time for many departures.  
  
At that moment Boromir awoke with a huge gasp. He sat bolt upright, breathing hard, his head still filled with night-fears and dreams – it seemed to him that a great malevolent army had been marching towards him from between huge, black gates, when suddenly it had fallen and fled, like stalks of grain before a gale. He’d even imagined he’d felt the heat of a raw, reddened-by-fire wind on his face… And just as quickly, the dream faded, and he found himself in a camp-bed among the healers’ tents. Indeed, one came to see what ailed him, having heard the man suddenly gasping for breath. Boromir’s heart slowed, the pounding drained from his temples, and he recovered himself enough to fend off the healer’s hand, insisting he could hold the proffered goblet for himself. He drank thirstily, accepting a second cup readily.  
  
“We have no facility for bathing here, but I can have a bowl of water and cloths brought for you to wash with,” said the healer, having laid an expert hand on Boromir’s forehead to satisfy himself there was no fever.  
  
“That will be good enough. Where is Lord Celeborn?”  
  
“He makes plans with his captains and wardens, but we are to tell him as soon as you wake. I’ll send a message immediately.”  
  
Boromir nodded. He pushed back the rough blanket and swung his legs to the floor stretching mightily, his muscles sore from the strains of battle and now stiffened from his long sleep. To his own nose his naked body stank of dried sweat and he thought there was still the rank, iron smell of old blood about him. A soak in a hot tub would be a great pleasure… but of course they were too busy tending the injured for such luxuries. Fingernails scratched the cloth of the cubicle to seek admission, and an elf brought in a bucket of water and some flat linen towels. He eyed the man curiously, but did not speak, just put down the water and hurried off on other errands.  
  
As he soaped his body, Boromir found numerous dark purple bruises and several deep raw grazes and minor cuts, but nothing that needed stitching. He’d been helped out of his clothing prior to his long sleep, but nothing had been replaced. He eased on his leggings, muddy and stained though they were. His shirt was stiff with sweat and the padded tunic he’d worn under his mail was cut and sprayed with black orc blood – they both stank… but there was nothing for it…  
  
There was a scratching at the fabric again and the same elf held out a fresh shirt before quickly disappearing. Again, Boromir was grateful that the elves seemed very conscious of the niceties of life! He left the grimy tunic and buckled his sword over his shirt and strode out to find Lord Celeborn for news of what was to happen next.  
  
The man was soon directed to where the Elf-lord gathered his wardens and gave orders. He welcomed Boromir with a smile and a clasp of the shoulder.  
  
“You came precisely at a good time – you felt the ground rock?”  
  
Boromir nodded.  
  
“The Dark Lord is no more - but there is still evil to be undone…”  
  
The rest of his words were lost to Boromir as he suddenly saw in his mind’s eye a face, almost child-like with bright, solemn eyes and curly hair – and he saw the fear in those eyes and knew himself the cause of it. His breath hitched – but then he felt a warm hand squeeze his arm reassuringly… ‘Frodo has succeeded!’ The projected thought drifted through his mind, a warm zephyr in the bleakness of his shame. ‘Courage, my Adan. You have more than redeemed yourself.’  
  
The thought retreated and Boromir jolted back to his surroundings – standing beside Lord Celeborn among the elven captains… as they planned their route to Dol Guldor – too long had Lórien, and the lands at its borders, suffered raids from the orc broods that held that baleful place. The Necromancer and his minions were dead and gone – now they would throw down the tower and cleanse the woods of the abominations there, once and for all!  
  
They would set out in three days time: first, they must gather weapons and send to the garths for extra warriors to replace those too badly wounded to march forth; then they must collect all the boats they could muster to ferry their army and supplies across the Anduin. The few days respite would allow the surviving elves to draw strength, grieve for their dead brethren, and prepare themselves for vengeance. Boromir could feel the mood of the forest around him, a fierce joy at the victory as well as an angry undercurrent in anticipation of avenging past wounds. It made even the air almost crackle of its own accord.  
  
Lord Celeborn and Lady Galdriel and her entourage were to travel back to Caras Galadhon - there were preparations to be made, and Lord Celeborn could coordinate his plans better when he had access to his network of messengers able to run and ride the secret paths of the Wood. The Lord and Lady would ride ahead; the wounded that could be moved would follow in carts; those that couldn’t, would have better facilities brought to them by the healers. Guards ringed the assembled tents containing the wounded, but they had little fear of further attack.  
  
Haldir tried to insist that he could ride, but Celeborn sided with the healers’ protests and forbade him, on pain of having Haldir tied up by force if he did not submit to riding in the back of a wain. The Marchwarden sulked like a child, and it was all his lord could do not to laugh out loud at his petulant frown. Celeborn kissed his cheek lightly and strode off to mount his waiting horse. Blankets and stuffed woollen pallets were laid in the back of the wagons to ease the patients from the jolting of the carts. Gwindor and the ever attendant Aerandir joined Haldir as he was helped into a covered wain. Boromir was sought out by Lórindol and Lindir, and the three rode with the leading group of elves that accompanied Lórien’s lord and lady.  
  
After a couple of jarring miles along the road, Haldir was ruefully pleased they had made him go by cart rather than on horse. His back felt like it was on fire and every lurch pulled at the newly healed skin and muscles along his spine. The healer riding with them would not be refused when he held out a draught of the numbing medication for Haldir, watching sternly as the Marchwarden swallow reluctantly. Then Aerandir quietly but firmly made him lie down on a pallet, half on his side, half on his face, so Haldir could use the scarred elf’s thigh as a pillow and roll with the motion of the wagon rather than try to brace painfully against the jerking movements.  
  
Gwindor was propped against Aerandir’s other side, still heavily sedated with poppy-juice. His head lolled against the sheepskin blanket Aerandir had draped over his shoulder, the elf’s arm protectively around the other barely conscious elf. He spoke quietly, telling the two injured elves softly murmured tales of the sea and the windswept waves and the voyages he had made long ago – for Aerandir had stilled his sea-longing and returned to Middle-earth. He was content to voyage the curve of Arda in exploration rather than take the Straight Road… as yet anyway. Although Gwindor was only aware of him as tumbling visions created in the depths of his poppy-sleep, Haldir was lulled by the deep-pitched husky voice, and, with the rolling motion, almost imagined himself on the deck of a pitching ship, before he sank into deep reverie.  
  
The elves on horse-back covered the ten miles to Caras Galadhon quickly; they cantered rather than galloped, but Boromir was still stiff-legged after they’d dismounted. Word was sent ahead of their coming and by the time they had mounted the great stairway to the Hall, simple food was laid out that could be taken up by hand. Warming drinks were ready and waiting; something Boromir much appreciated, the hot tea tasted good and was very welcome!  
  
Celeborn began making plans and proposals straight away. Messengers arrived to deliver news and were sent back with responses and requests, orders given and taken. Haldir arrived leaning heavily on the arm of the elf with the scarred throat. The Marchwarden’s face was even paler than normal, Boromir noted, and though he insisted he could manage, Haldir did readily accept the chair that was brought for him, and having seen his charge seated, the elf, bowed and disappeared, back to turn his attentions to Gwindor. After a few hours Boromir found he couldn’t contain his yawns, or stop his eyelids drooping. Celeborn smiled understandingly and spoke quietly to him.  
  
“We are nearly finished here – why don’t you go to your chamber, take a hot bath, and rest. Haldir and I will be finished ourselves shortly. We will bathe after you.”  
  
Boromir nodded, and took his leave with a slight bow. He was stiff and aching, he found, as he mounted the upper stairs; the prospect of a soak looked better and better with each step. He found himself smiling in anticipation.  
  
As ever, Celeborn’s efficient chamberlain had anticipated everything. In the bathing room, hot water filled the tub, covered with a folding wooden lid to conserve the heat. More water stood in reserve in a covered cauldron over a small brazier, with buckets of cold water to temper it when the tub was re-filled. The room was warm and fragrant with the familiar smell of white-flower soap, hot wood and scented charcoal; a large jug of red wine and three goblets were set on a tray, along with a covered bowl that Boromir discovered held warm bread rolls baked with honey. Their odour was delicious; he took one and wolfed it down while he stripped out of his clothes and boots in his own room.  
  
Leaving the soiled stuff in a pile, he padded back, naked, pausing only to pour himself a goblet of wine before climbing gratefully into the tub of warm and welcoming water. He sank back with a deep sigh of contentment to immerse himself shoulder deep before he roused enough to sip the heady wine with pleasure. He drowsed, and only woke when the empty goblet loosely held in one hand while resting partly submerged on his chest, fell and hit him on the nose.  
  
He pushed himself up and wiped his face sleepily. He should get out – surely the others would be here soon, and besides, the water was cooling now. He stood and stretched mightily and found his muscles eased by the warmth, as his mind was eased by the wine. He stepped out of the bath and found a bath sheet to drape around him. He poured himself another cup of wine and fumbled with the spigot to let the water flow away, gurgling loudly down the waste pipe. A very short while later came a light tap at the door from his side of the bathing room, and the chamberlain appeared.  
  
“If you are finished… I’ll prepare the room for my lord.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Boromir. He paused for a moment “…Um …how did you know?”  
  
The elf gave a crooked smile of amusement and pride.  
  
“A good attendant knows what a lord wants before he wants it - and my quarters are just below – I heard the water.”  
  
“Ah…” Boromir nodded, as the sudden memory came to him un-looked for, “My father’s chamberlain was similarly astute… when we were younger we thought he must read my father’s mind.”  
  
The elf gave a slight grunt of amusement, “Well, that helps too. Now – if I may prepare for my Lord Celeborn…?”  
  
Boromir shuffled away wrapped in his towel, dismissed. In his room he found a night-robe, fresh clothes, and a tray with more of the honey-bread, freshly warmed, and a small jug of wine and a fresh cup. He chuckled to himself, ‘…yes, an excellent servant!’  
  
He had thought he might read some more of the ballads in the book Tasarion had left, but decided to get into bed rather than sit at the small table. He took the wine and topped up his cup, then took the lamp from the table to his bedside and settled down. Shortly he heard murmuring voices from the bathing room, signalling Celeborn and Haldir had arrived, along with the chamberlain’s soft voice, he noted idly. The occasional gasp and hissed breath led Boromir to imagine that Haldir did need help to undress and bathe… even though some snapped words from the Marchwarden showed that help was not always appreciated.  
  
“I can do it! …Ooh!” Haldir’s muffled voice broke off with a strangled groan.  
  
“Really? Stiff-necked as the King of Taur e-Ndaedlos!” came the reply.  
  
…After which came a long string of colourful elven profanities of the sort that Lindir had delighted in teaching the man. Boromir chuckled softly at the mental image of the lordly Celeborn venting his annoyance as plainly as any barrack-room cove. Haldir’s equally heated response was abruptly curtailed by a loud splash and a squawk… followed by a pause, and then laughter. After that there was nothing above whispers and the gentle rippling splashes of a wash-cloth dipped and raised to trickle water.  
  
Calmness and warmth rolled through him; the wine made him drowsy and Boromir slept. His sleep at first was dreamless… then slowly filled with lingering fear and un-named dread. It seemed he rode hard through the night… he recognised Gwindor - and Gelmir - riding with him, and some others at his back, but it was what he rode towards – agonising pain and hopeless distress, that made him shake with emotion. Fear, loathing, abject despair, a distraught sense of utter failure… and such pain! His back burned; his whole body was wracked with agony… inside and out.  
  
Abruptly, a stark image entered Boromir’s dream – flickering firelight, a young elf, his silver hair tumbled forward hiding his face. Stripped completely naked, spread-eagled and tightly bound with strong ropes that forced his body to bend forward over a large boulder… His pale body torn and cut, striped with great crimson, bleeding wheals, ravaged raw by a whip; the remains of a broken arrow shaft still protruded from his shoulder - his thighs and buttocks were caked and bloody from… Bile rose in Boromir’s throat – there was a gang of the leering ruffians clustered around him in the glimmering red light, maybe twenty… they must have taken turns…  
  
Muffled shouts woke Boromir, coming from the chamber on the far side of the bathing room. He staggered out of bed, that single stark image still in his head. He flung open the door and strode across the intervening room; from beyond he could hear the heavy, ragged breathing that spoke of sobs trying to be desperately subdued. His distress made him forget protocol and he rushed through the door.  
  
Haldir, eyes wide and unseeing with only the white’s showing, was half-crouched, backed against the bed’s draped curtain, a long, thin knife in his hand; slack-jawed, chest heaving in shallow gasps – his spirit was not here, but re-living an ancient nightmare. Celeborn knelt on the bed, slowly edging towards him to wrest the knife from his grasp. He saw Boromir at one door and the chamberlain at the other and waved them both to keep back.  
  
“Haldir, meleth, they are gone. Long gone… they cannot hurt you now…”  
  
“I… heard… his… voice…” Haldir rasped between shuddering breaths.  
  
“No. It was the pain of your wound brought it back. They are gone. Put down the blade…”  
  
“No! No – I felt… it… I…”  
  
The chamberlain had walked slowly forward and was now behind Haldir - who suddenly spun around and lunged at him with the naked blade. The chamberlain side-stepped nimbly and grabbed his wrist, twisting the knife away. Celeborn sprang forward and clasped Haldir tightly, holding the distraught elf’s arms close against his body. Haldir struggled mightily.  
  
“Haldir – Haldir! They are gone! Gone!”  
  
Haldir gasped, shuddered, went rigid for a moment… before letting his head fall slowly onto Celeborn’s shoulder.  
  
“I thought… he was at my back…” he whispered into the fabric of Celeborn’s night-robe.  
  
Celeborn slowly released his grip enough to raise one hand to stroke his lover’s hair.  
  
“No more, no more… never more…” he crooned, and waved the other two away.  
  
The chamberlain took Boromir’s elbow firmly and steered him back through to his room. He pushed the man to sit down on the bed, re-lit the lamp and then emptied the remaining wine into the two goblets and thrust one into the man’s hands.  
  
“Drink.” It was an order not a request.  
  
Boromir sipped a mouthful of wine as the chamberlain took a gulp that drained half his cup. He flopped down in the chair, leant his elbow on the table, propping his head on his hand, he ran his stiffened fingers through his hair. Boromir remained silent, watching and waiting.  
  
The chamberlain drew breath, slowly raising his head.  
  
“You will not speak of this…”  
  
“Of course not!” blurted Boromir, angry at being thought a tittle-tattle.  
  
The chamberlain dipped his head in acknowledgment, but said nothing. He listened for a moment, held his hand up for silence and tip-toed back into the bathing room, returning shortly with the remains of the large jug of wine that had been left there.  
  
“He has settled again,” was all he said. He topped up Boromir’s barely touched goblet and re-filled his own before sitting down again.  
  
“You… saw… something?”  
  
Boromir nodded uncertainly.  
  
The chamberlain took a sip of wine to delay having to speak while he made up his mind. He sat back.  
  
“Before Haldir found his connexion to Lord Celeborn…” he began. He paused to take another sip before plunging on, obviously trying to choose his words carefully.  
  
“Haldir was young, barely come of age; he’d recently joined the wardens when he was sent on a routine patrol to the border near the mountains. He was alone – the last time any warden was sent out singly - when he was attacked by Wildmen. His relief’s horse had broken a leg and he had to kill the animal and turn back – Haldir was left alone to fight off… I don’t know, probably forty or more of the beasts. He killed half before he ran out of arrows and they caught him… and… took their revenge!”  
  
The elf’s face twisted with remembered rage and his fist gripped the cup so hard Boromir thought he might crush it. The chamberlain took another swallow of his wine and continued.  
  
“In his despair and desperation, Haldir’s _fea_ called out and Lord Celeborn heard him. You may not know, but among us it is considered that only true lovers’ _feas_ can meet and allow them to far-speak each other – I have heard the phrase in Westron _soul-mate_ – so those two are. Because of that cry of the heart, Lord Celeborn was able to gather some wardens to him and ride to his rescue – even then, those filthy… had him from sunset to sunset and beyond. What they did…” The elf shuddered, shook his head and spat out a foul epithet.  
  
“Most elves would have given up and faded, but the strength of Lord Celeborn’s newly discovered love for him held Haldir – that was many of your lifetimes ago and still they are together, but… sometimes evil memories take him. Very seldom now, but… there are times… He drifts back into that darkness.”  
  
“He has been sorely hurt… in the battle… I can understand…” murmured Boromir.  
  
“Yes,” said the chamberlain, “You saw it, didn’t you? What we saw?”  
  
“You were there?” said Boromir, more sharply than he meant to.  
  
The elf nodded, “I, Gwindor, Gelmir …and perhaps another half dozen others still breathing in Arda. We saw and we swore a solemn oath never to tell anyone what we saw. The shame of it, to be… so… used! Many an elf has faded for less. This is why you too must swear never to speak of this to any living thing.  
  
Boromir put his hand on his heart.  
  
“I so swear.” He said simply.  
  
“Good enough,” said the elf.  
  
There were a few moments silence, before Boromir’s curiosity got the better of him as the chamberlain stood up to leave.  
  
“What happened to them… the Wildmen?”  
  
“We killed them all of course. Brought them down with arrows - those that didn’t die outright were hacked apart, along with the corpses. Then we threw the pieces down off the cliffs to be devoured by the wild things.”  
  
With that, he strode out and left Boromir to lie back on the bed in uneasy contemplation. He concentrated hard and tried to find a thought from Lord Celeborn, but found nothing. He felt very alone as he drifted into sleep.  
  
  
  
  
*****************************************************************  
Note: the story referenced here as being part of Celeborn and Haldir’s history is: ‘Heart and Body‘ by Implacida. 


	41. On the Road to Dol Guldur   -  [pwp]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Boromir awoke dull-headed, his mouth dry and woolly; he stumbled from the bed and, after listening at the bathing room door and hearing nothing, went in to relieve himself. The damp towels spoke of the place having already been used so he knew he could take his time. He swilled his mouth with cold water and chewed on one of the softened twigs the elves favoured to clean their teeth; then he splashed his face with cold water to wake himself properly, before washing quickly with the remains of the heated water. He towelled himself dry and hesitantly went to listen at Celeborn’s door – silence. He went to his own room and dressed rapidly. A tap at the door and the chamberlain entered with hot tea… and a tisane of much needed willow-bark!  
  
“I thought it might be of use,” he said, and set down the tray before turning to leave.  
  
“Where is Lord Celeborn?” asked Boromir, admiring again the elf’s uncanny attention to detail.  
  
“He breakfasts in the Hall. He said to let you wake on your own then bid you join them.”  
  
“I shall come straight away.”  
  
“They eat slowly, there is no hurry - the horses are still being gathered and saddled and the wains packed. Make sure you drink the willow – you’ll feel better for it.”  
  
And with that he was gone.  
  
Downstairs, the bustle was palpable; there was no disorganised scurry, simply the purposeful stride of many elves completing their allocated tasks. However, at the side-table where Lord Celeborn and Haldir sat, the atmosphere was far from calm. Both directed and supervised the labours of the day, answered queries and gave orders, yet neither looked the other in the eye to break the palpable tension between them. Celeborn caught sight of Boromir and waved him to serve himself with food from a nearby table and then join them. A servitor brought more hot tea to the table, placing the tray and fresh cups within reach of his lords before silently slipping away. Boromir helped himself and offered to refresh the elven-lords’ cups. Celeborn accepted; Haldir waved his offer away with barely disguised irritation. Boromir withdrew to a corner of the table. He drank the fragrant tea gratefully, but only toyed with the bread and fruit he didn’t particularly want.  
  
Celeborn frowned over a list offered by a warden come from the stables with an inventory of animals.  
  
“Mmmm… Have Finarfin saddle as many horses as we can find. I would empty Lórien to the destruction of that sorcerous hill… there may be few enough of us as it is…”  
  
“Exactly!” Burst out Haldir. “I should come as well!”  
  
‘Ahh, that is the way of it,’ thought Boromir. Haldir was clearly furious and barely containing his anger, the stiffness in his posture from more than simply his injured back.  
  
Celeborn waved the messenger away, back with his reply to the stable-master, before returning his attention to another list.  
  
“We have spoken of this.” He did not look at Haldir.  
  
“You spoke, my Lord – I was forced to listen!” hissed Haldir.  
  
No one much beyond the table heard, but those nearest still made sure their attention was elsewhere. Boromir gazed steadfastly at his plate and toyed with a crust. Celeborn looked up, glanced around to see many bent backs and turned heads before turning to face Haldir directly.  
  
“You are my Marchwarden. Since the Lady rides with us, your place is to remain and command Lórien in our stead. If our plans go awry, there must be somebody here I can trust to lead out people…”  
  
“If things go awry I should be at your side!” snapped Haldir.  
  
“If things go awry I do not want you at my side!” barked Lord Celeborn, then instantly regretted the remark, seeing the pain and shock flash across Haldir’s face.  
  
“Pull that curtain!” he ordered Boromir, “No, you stay here…” he added when Boromir rose hastily and positioned himself on the outside of the screening drape.  
  
“Come. Sit down, Boromir; pour us some more tea.”  
  
Boromir resumed his seat and with admirable composure schooled his face to studied neutrality. He all too well knew the turmoil that flooded the two elven-lords’ thoughts; he needed no far-speak to see and hear that!  
  
Celeborn leant across the table and seized his warden’s forearm.  
  
“I do not want you hurt more…” He stilled Haldir’s protests by gripping his arm more firmly. “Listen to me. You cannot ride that distance without taking more injury; the wound is too recent.”  
  
“I can take poppy!”  
  
Celeborn shook his head and slid his hand to clasp the warden’s fingers in his own.  
  
“You hate that… Meleth, I would not have you hurt for all of Arda, either by my words, or actions.” He raised his other hand to silence a further retort forming on Haldir’s lips. “But on this I will be obeyed – you will stay here. You will take my place as Lord of Lórien until I return – and do not doubt me, I will return to you. I will!”  
  
A moment of intensity passed between them as they stared into each others’ feas, a moment of fierce love and reassurance that teased agonizingly at the edges of Boromir’s mind, less than an image, more than a feeling.  
  
Haldir raised his lord’s hand that clasped his and kissed it in fealty.  
  
“As my lord wishes.”  
  
“To have you safe… Nay, I don’t know what I would have done had I lost you…”  
  
“And what if I lost you? Who will be there to keep you from charging rashly forward, eh?”  
  
“He will.”  
  
Both elves looked at the man, who had slipped back into his seat and tried to become invisible. Boromir looked up quickly and stared into their blue eyes; looking from one to other he saw: challenge in one's, doubt in the other's, amusement at the man’s discomfort, and exasperation at his love’s seemingly perverse flippancy. The man swallowed hard, then quickly knelt before them and laid a hand to his breast, bowing his head.  
  
“If by my life I can protect him – I will.”  
  
Haldir raised an eyebrow. There was the slightest of pauses.  
  
“Well, that might be enough, I suppose.”  
  
Boromir raised his eyes and found they were both smiling at him, amused but not unkindly so. He scrambled back into his seat.  
  
Lord Celeborn released his warden’s hand and reached to clap Boromir on the shoulder.  
  
“Well said, but I doubt it will come to that…”  
  
“Nevertheless…” said Haldir, “if you make an oath, adan, be assured, the Elves do not take failure to fulfil them lightly…”  
  
Boromir lifted his chin. “I do not take oaths lightly either.”  
  
Celeborn laughed out loud. “The pair of you – stiff-necked and prideful, both!”  
  
He reached out to them to take a hand in each of his:  
  
“I am the Lord of Lórien. It is not a position I plan to leave as yet. Time may alter the Golden Wood now that the power of Nenya passes, but your faithfulness, of both of you, my other selves – I doubt that not at all!”  
  
And both elf and man felt a comforting warmth seep through them, up from their hands to their hearts, that was more than simply a warm hand’s clasp of friendship.  
  
Haldir acquiesced with a single dip of the head; he was most unhappy to let his lord leave him behind, but he knew his place was still to serve the Elves of Lórien. Should disaster strike, he would have to put aside grief for duty, but after that, if he survived, he’d dispatch himself to Mandos by his own hand rather than they should remain apart! The gentle pressure and shake by the hand that clasped his let Haldir know his lord had heard that thought also, but did not approve it.  
  
Someone scratched at the fabric of the curtain for permission to enter.  
  
“Come – We still have much to do, and I wish to be gone before noon” said Celeborn.  
  
With the clearing of the tension in the air about their lord, the atmosphere in the Hall lifted. The campaign they organised no longer felt like a desperate end-game, but became a final push to victory… or death.  
  
The elves crossed the Anduin, ferried by every boat they could muster, over the course of the afternoon. They made good progress before they stopped for the night to rest the animals and let the wounded among them have some respite. The column of marching elves was flanked by horses with elves mounted in pairs, one to ride, the other at his back to defend him and the infantry from any attack. At their head rode Lord Celeborn and his guards, in the middle rode Lady Galadriel surrounded by her ladies, garbed as archers and ready to defend her. Behind her marched the elves who had sustained small injuries and were perhaps not quite as quick, and behind them the wains of their supplies followed by more riders, both doubled and single as a rearguard.  
  
Aerandir rode with Lord Celeborn’s guard, along with Gwindor who refused to be denied a place, even if he still needed heavy doses of herbs to dull the pain, though he had reluctantly agreed to sit in one of the wagons if the effort of riding became too much. Before they’d left the City of Trees he’d vowed he would disobey all orders and follow them anyway if he was refused the concession of riding out with the elvish army. Haldir had ground his teeth with anger at this, but Celeborn had warned him with a thought and look and he’d held his tongue. Gwindor’s mithril mask prevented any expression being seen, but by his fiercely controlled breathing, Boromir guessed what effort riding now cost him. Aerandir rode at his side, knee to knee, his face nearly as set as Gwindor’s mask in an effort to conceal his anxiety.  
  
Lórindol and Lindir rode doubled, part of the guards on the flank. Boromir saw them canter lightly up and down the line occasionally. Clearly they were revelling in the notion of attacking their bitter enemies, even to the point of performing riding tricks as they galloped by, dismounting to place a foot to the ground before springing back into the saddle again. Normally, elves did not need to ride saddled, but when riding to battle they needed to be both secure, and to carry their own bedrolls and water with them – the wains were needed to haul provisions for the infantry. The use of bridle, saddle and stirrups made climbing onto a horse, even one galloping, no more than climbing a stair and a number of the younger elves amused themselves and their audience with more and more daring tricks… until Celeborn sent a quiet word that if they had that amount of energy to spare, perhaps they would care to volunteer to brush and wash all the horses when they camped that night.  
  
The army marched until after sunset. A few stray bands of orcs were seen on the plain, but they had no stomach for attacking a column of well-armed and determined elves. The orcs slunk away of their own accord, or were chased away by the outriders’ arrows. Fires were lit when they camped, water boiled for hot drinks and travelling rations issued. Lórindol and Lindir sought out and found Boromir tucked up against some sheltering rocks and greeted him jovially as they slumped down beside his camp-fire.  
  
“How goes it?” grinned Lórindol.  
  
“How’s the food?” said Lindir, helping himself to a piece of the flat camp-bread that was Boromir’s plate.  
  
“Well, and good,” said Boromir, whacking Lindir’s fingers away from his supper.  
  
“Leave the adan alone, glutton. Go get your own… and bring mine back while you’re at it!” called Lórindol as Lindir stood and strolled away to where the cooks had set their hearths.  
  
He returned shortly balancing steaming, savoury meat and cooked wild greens on large flat-bread ‘plates’.  
  
“Eat well.” Lindir announced cheerfully, “They say it will be dried rations from tomorrow – we enter the woods of Dol Guldor before noon, and nothing there is wholesome to eat.”  
  
“Make sure you fill your water-flask as well, my adan,” said Lórindol. “The streams there will be tainted, if not by foulness them by sorcery.”  
  
The elves attacked their food with gusto, leaving aside words in favour of enjoying the cured pork, sauced and cooked on griddles over the open fires, along with the hot sallet of wild greens gathered by keen eyed cooks along their way. After making a performance of licking his fingers clean of the last of the grease, Lórindol leaned nearer his lover, approaching for a kiss and sliding his hands to the other's waist. The kiss never landed; instead he dived inside the front of Lindir’s tunic and produced a fat, winter apple.  
  
“Mmm… I thought you had added to your girth very rapidly!” crowed Lórindol, bowling Lindor onto his back in search of more apples. He pulled another five out triumphantly in the course of tickling Lindir unmercifully.  
  
“I bought them for all of us!” choked Lindir.  
  
Lórindol threw Boromir another hidden apple.  
  
“Really – I did!” groaned Lindir, wheezing with laughter because now Lórindol had straddled his hips while searching vigorously inside his clothes.  
  
“Ow – that’s not an apple!” Lindir yelped.  
  
Lórindol just grinned, “I know.”  
  
Lindir pushed him off and struggled to straighten his disarrayed clothing.  
  
“You’re nothing but a vexsome dwarf…” Lindir growled, his smile negating the meaning… until he looked around. “Hey? Where did the apples go?”  
  
Boromir had bulging cheeks; he raised empty hands innocently. Both elves glanced at each other… then pounced on the man. One elf would have been more than a match – two was no contest; they swiftly had him in complete disarray, unlaced, breathing hard from the friendly tussle… a row of four apples set neatly to one side. Boromir was flattened, laid on his back under the warm bodies of the two of them.  
  
“I’d say we were still an apple short, meleth,” murmured Lórindol.  
  
“We’d better search him more thoroughly then…” muttered Lindir throatily. His own, ‘accidentally mistaken’ for an apple, prominent inside his leggings, now lying hot and hard against Boromir’s thigh.  
  
“What… about the others?” Boromir gasped as Lórindol’s hand snaked down his loosened waistband, gliding over his belly to brush the damp curls below. Boromir groaned softly, a shiver of expectation ran through him as his loins stirred in response to the elves’ touch.  
  
“We have excellent hearing… but can see and hear nothing if we choose to,” whispered Lindir nibbling at Boromir’s ear. “…Would you have us search further, my adan?”  
  
Boromir gulped at the feel of the soft inquisitive tongue exploring his ear-lobe. He could smell the warmth of the elvish must, and knew they must be able to smell the passion on his skin as well. He felt Lindir shift off his body – all the better to pull at the laces to Boromir’s small-clothes. Boromir closed his eyes, and the searching fingers halted at their task, awaiting permission. He drew a deep breath and nodded decisively. The tongue became deep kisses over his neck and jaw. One set of hands explored his ribs, sliding up over his nipples, as other nimble fingers swiftly unlaced him.  
  
“My… I do believe I’ve discovered prettier fruit than an apple…” breathed Lindir.  
  
The cool night air made Boromir's exposed flesh quiver, until he felt warm breath over his loins. Lindir blew gently, and Boromir hissed with expectation his erection jumping to full attention. Lórindol shifted, turning his head to look down.  
  
“Shall I taste this strange new fruit, then?” Breathed Lindir, looking into Lórindol’s eyes.  
  
“I believe you should… for the sake of exploration”  
  
Boromir’s hips jerked as the elf’s tongue gave a tiny lick to the swollen, shiny tip.  
  
“Ah… and what have we here? I believe there’s a pair of fat cherries too! Something for each of us then…”  
  
Lindir’s hand cradled his sac and Boromir moaned, mouth open, eyes closed. Lórindol moved, reversing his position, as Lindir quickly and efficiently pulled off Boromir’s boots, leggings and small clothes. Lórindol kissed the man’s belly, making him writhe under their duel assault. The man felt a saddle-bag dragged forward and pushed under his buttocks to raise them. Lórindol’s body lay against his arm and chest. Boromir reached out to explore, and felt Lórindol quiver as he found the prominent bulge in the elf’s leggings. He kneaded and stroked, rewarded by Lórindol’s gasps and the elf fumbling to undo his own laces to allow the man more access. Boromir cried out loud, then hastily bit his lip to contain his ecstatic groans. His back arched, his eager hips thrust upwards – both elves tasted the sweet ‘fruit’ of his loins; their heads brushing together as they moved in rhythm. Lórindol had the man’s ‘cherries’ captured inside a soft, liquid mouth, running his tongue over and round the swollen glands, while Lindir sucked with increasing force, moving his head back and forth to control Boromir’s efforts to thrust hard into his mouth.  
  
It did not take long before Boromir was undone by the two cunning tongues. Lindir stretched forward to clamp a hand over then man’s mouth to muffle his cries of release. The man lay on his back gasping, while the elves, fuelled by his reactions, found the sensitive parts of each others bodies to excite. He could hear flesh slip on flesh, causing soft moans and gasps, before he drifted into a post-coital daze. He woke to feel more warm lingering touches on his body.  
  
“Too soon…” he mumbled.  
  
“Are you sure…?” whispered Lindir at his back. Then he did something to jolt the man to awareness. “Are you so sure…?”  
  
Boromir nodded, sighed, squirmed against the oiled finger penetrating him, probing to find, and finding that sweet bundle of tissue inside him – Bormir shook his head… ‘No… Yes… Oh yes!’ He opened his mouth and Lórindol filled it with a deep kiss of twining tongues. Boromir could feel that the two elves were naked now, although above them all was the roughness of a covering blanket.  
  
“Join us, sweet one,” Lindir purred, nipping the back of the man’s shoulder with sharp teeth.  
  
Boromir groaned, arching away as the elf pushed another finger inside him, loosening the tight band of muscle. Lórindol’s arousal was there to push against the man’s belly; his eager fingers found Boromir’s sac and massaged the no longer unwilling cock to attention again. The other hand snaked over Boromir’s body to stroke Lindir’s flank, making him shiver in anticipation. They writhed together in building pleasure, before Lórindol shifted.  
  
“Lean him back.” Lórindol said and shifted position to lay on his back over the saddle bag, raising his knees high and wide.  
  
Boormir felt the shift and was ready as Lindir withdrew his fingers and whispered in his ear:  
  
“Take him, sweet one, he waits for you”  
  
Boromir slid forward over the elf, eager, hard, his cock nudging against the elf’s hot swollen sac. He fumbled to place himself against the elf’s tightness and felt oily slickness. He grinned wolfishly ‘so, the elf was ready for him…’ and thrust in hard, to be rewarded with a harsh gasp. Lórindol’s hot ring of muscle automatically tightened around him at the sudden intrusion. The elf grabbed Boromir behind the neck, pulling him down to kiss his lips and ease the thrusting. Then Boromir felt the warmth of Lindir's body over his back, and the elf’s lengthy hardness pressing against his own slicked opening. He moaned into Lórindol’s mouth as Lindir slowly penetrated him with a long, very controlled stroke. Boromir shook his head free to breathe and pulled back from Lórindol. When the man pushed back inside, more slowly this time, Lindir matched his body’s stroke; the ecstasy almost made him come then and there.  
  
“Sshh… sshh… gently…” muttered Lórindol, “…there should be more than this.”  
  
Lindir fumbled a hand between their bellies to grasp the slender, engorged head of Lórindol’s erection, making the elf shiver and grunt with pleasure as his partner’s hand slid up and down. Boromir could only nod, slack-jawed, as he filled and was filled by the most exquisite pleasure. He could smell the heavy waves of mounting passion rising from their bodies, thick, sour-sweet. His whole body throbbed, consumed with heat and lust and wanting. As he rocked forward, Lórindol’s hips rose to meet him and Lindir once more grazed the sweet spot inside him. Boromir’s eyes rolled up into his head, his eyelids fluttering; it was more than he could stand, and yet he wanted more… more…  
  
He let Lindir control the rhythm of their love-making, easing back against the delicious pressure from behind, then pushing deep into welcoming heat. Lindir thrust again, finding a pace that left all three heady and gasping. Exquisitely, their passions built in intensity, but besides the delicious here and now, Boromir suddenly had the remembered feel of another’s body flash into his mind, another’s willing, urgent responses. One familiar, hard-muscled body against his became another’s, softer, different… became the musky scent of white flowers and exotic green woods, became the throaty groans of a beloved voice and a scent redolent of warm leather… He shook his head, helpless.  
  
The rapture spiralled to bursting point, faster and fiercer, until… until… with a great groan, Boromir could take no more. He came in great shuddering waves of pleasure that wracked his body. Lórindol gripped Boromir’s hips hard, quavering, thrusting urgently against him to find his own shuddering release. As Lindir arched to push himself inside still further, harder, to come with a muffled cry though bitten lips; his body arching. spasming into Boromir in a series of lessening after-shocks, until he too was utterly spent, boneless and breathless. The two tumbled to one side off Lórindol, who grunted and carefully stretched his cramped legs straight to lie panting, eyes closed.  
  
None of them could move at first. Then Lórindol fumbled the blanket over them and reached to pull the half-conscious Boromir towards him. Lindir shivered as the heat left his body and spooned back against the man, feeling Lórindol’s hand reach over to cup his hip-bone. Boromir sank instantly into a deep sleep.  
  
“Remind me to hunt for apples again sometime,” Lórindol muttered before sinking into exhausted reverie.  
  
Lindir just smiled, before his senses drifted away into dreams.  
  
The three awoke in the pre-dawn light, chilly and stiff. They groped to find their scattered clothes, struggling into them before huddling together again for a little more hastily caught sleep. After the sun rose the rest of the camp began to stir, and none of the three could ignore the smirks and glances of the elves camped nearest to them. Choosing not to hear out of politeness was one thing… but a raging tide of pure lust could hardly be dismissed! Boromir found himself colouring as he hastily gathered his strewn boots and tunic. When he realised the covert glances were distinctly tinged with envy, he blushed even more.  
  
Lindir threw him one of the remaining apples.  
  
“Eat up, Stone-lord. We want you to keep your strength up!” He winked and laughed.  
  
Boromir turned crimson and sat down hard against the rocks, hoping to hide until the heat calmed from his face. A mixture of emotions rushed through him: anger at their presumption, chagrin that he had enjoyed them so much; shame because he felt like a wanton… and the realisation that, although Celebmir was still there inside him, it was Boromir who had thoroughly enjoyed being swivved legless by a pair of elves! Lórindol hobbled back from the cooks’ hearths with three horn beakers of hot tea. He handed them around and slumped down beside Boromir, then winced and dragged a blanket under him to sit on. Boromir stared at his tea.  
  
Lórindol glanced up at Lindir, who shrugged and bit into his apple.  
  
They sipped the tea in silence for a few long moments. Lórindol spoke first:  
  
“Shall I plait your hair, Lord Boromir? It’s grown long these days… almost like an elf’s.”  
  
It was true; his hair did hang long, well past his shoulders, these days. It seemed to have grown very quickly, but then… if felt like ages and ages since… He sighed. Hazy, unsteady memories slowly returning told him he had started out from another place, and before that, there was a white city of stone where he had a father, a brother, and a quest, now brought to completion in spite of him rather than because of him.  
  
“My Lord…”began Lórindol again.  
  
“Nah, don’t ‘lord’ me,” said Boromir, “I am not as I was.”  
  
“No,” said the elf, “for good or ill that is true, but I do not think it for ill.”  
  
He turned. “Lindir, pass my bag, I want my comb and lotion. My friend Boromir needs his hair attended to.”  
  
Lindir passed them over, sniffing the air as he did so. “I smell fresh bread. Looks like I have an errand also.” And he strode off following his nose.  
  
Lórindol set out his comb and lotion and hair fastenings. Boromir watched him.  
  
“Come friend, let me do you this service,” said Lórindol.  
  
Boromir’s hair had been arranged in elvish plaits. He couldn’t remember it being done, perhaps when his ‘other’ self had held sway, but he could see they were mussed and loosened and needed attention. He thought for a moment, then slide across to sit in front of Lórindol. The elf teased out the tangled fastenings and quickly loosed the braids, trying as much as he could not to pull the man’s hair. He poured lotion into his hands and smoothed them through the kinked hair, before gently massaging Boromir’s scalp with slow firm pressure. At first the man had held himself stiffly, but under the studied attention he gradually relaxed, and began to enjoy the skilful ministrations. Lórindol began to carefully comb the knots out, working from the bottom to the top. With practised fingers he divided the smoothed hair and began to plait, shifting his position now and again with a soft grunt – which made Boromir grin as he remembered why Lórindol was sore!  
  
“Turn for me,” said the elf.  
  
Boromir shifted, presenting to Lórindol the side of his head that now bore a thick streak of pure silver-white hair falling from above his right eye. The elf touched it reverently, stroking his fingers through the shining fall.  
  
“You have changed, my adan. I did not know you before, so I cannot say for worse or for better, but I do know that if it were for the worse then truly you must have been a paragon of virtue before.”  
  
Boromir laughed, “Nay, not that!”  
  
“Then it must be for better; indeed I know no better, braver, finer man… save perhaps one…”  
  
“You met my Théodred?”  
  
“Ah… Then perhaps I should say ‘two’…”  
  
“Aragorn.”  
  
“Yes,” said the elf, “He will be your king – is that not so?”  
  
Boromir nodded, his head drooping, he sighed heavily.  
  
“And you will be his steward?”  
  
Boromir shook his head.  
  
“No?” said Lórindol in surprise. “But I thought that was your rank, Lord of the Stone-land.”  
  
“I betrayed his trust, I failed my part in the quest – how can I return there in disgrace? No – I have a brother; he will become Steward after my father…”  
  
Boromir thought of Aragorn being introduced to his father… ‘Sweet Eru… whatever did that meeting go like!’ His mind raced through several imagined scenarios, but none of them included him as part of them. Boromir paused in shock at the thought… How could he go back? How could he NOT go back? But if he did - what then? What would he do? What place could there be for him there? He mulled the seemingly intractable positions over in his mind while Lórindol deftly plaited and arranged his hair into warrior’s knots.  
  
“For all that you think you have not achieved, there is much that you have. You should not ignore that as you weigh the possibilities,” Lórindol said quietly. “You have done the Lord and the Lady great service here, and have proved your strength, your courage, your loyalty…”  
  
“But that was the other one… Celebmir did that!”  
  
Lórindol laughed out loud and clapped Boromir on the shoulder, “But you are Celebmir. And you are Boromir. And you are the Horselord’s great love, and Tasarion’s…” he paused for a fraction, “…friend. And ours as well.” He put his arm around Boromir’s shoulder, “We can be more than one thing at a time. You are all of them!”  
  
They sat in silence for a short while; Boromir mulling over his thoughts, Lórindol remaining with a comforting arm of assurance around the man’s shoulder. Around them the camp stirred into busyness – a sight ultimately so familiar to Boromir that he scarce noticed it was elves and not men who yawned, stretched, folded bed-rolls and shucked back into cast off boots and leathers under the pale, dawning sun.  
  
“Here!” shouted Lindir trotting back with a cloth holding hot bread. He divided it between them.  
  
“We‘ll need to eat this as we ride – they’re getting the horses ready,” he announced.  
  
Lórindol pushed on Boromir’s shoulder to help him rise. “Well, I want the blanket today.”  
  
Lindir sniggered, and Lórindol cuffed his arm as he passed.  
  
“Next time - you can go at the bottom!” he said and went to gather his saddlebags.  
  
“Oh – there’s to be a next time?” grinned Lindir, mumbling somewhat because his mouth was full of bread.  
  
Boromir stood, shook back his warrior braids, and lifted his chin. “Might be,” he said and swaggered off… the effect only slightly marred by the swaying touch of ‘saddle’ soreness in his walk.  
  
Lindir watched him go. “Really?” he murmured to himself, “I’ll look forward to that!”


	42. Dol Guldur Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

The elven camp packed up, re-assembled themselves into a four-deep column with outriders and set off. The elves were in good heart and marched singing across the grassland. A wide swathe of filth marked the passage of Dol Guldur’s army, but they swung away from it to cross clean ground, the sight of the disgusting leavings of the Dark Army making them even more determined that this time the land must be cleansed of the foul spawn. At the first particularly rank area where the orcs had evidently camped, the Lady had them pause while she summoned the ground water to rise in an attempt to wash their stinking detritus away. But Lord Celeborn rode back to her, far-speaking between them.  
  
“Come. The fetid waste offends me also, but we can deal with this on our return.”  
  
Lady Galadriel, bit her lip, but acknowledged her husband’s wisdom; as much as she hated the piles of dung and fly-blown bones… they were as nothing as to what she knew they would find ahead of them.  
  
Celeborn led them further south, so that the reek of the orcs passing was upwind of them. Here the white wind-flowers had not been trampled by iron-shod feet. The new grass was still sweet and green here, studded with the tiny wild flowers that sheltered beneath the tussocks: little gems of sky-blue bells, patches of tiny bright crimson stars on creeping stems and here and there, longer plumes of pale yellow buds, upright but bending and tossing in the freshening wind. They made good time that day, in spite of being slowed by the pace of the heavy wains. The mounted elves were fitful at the slowed progress; Celeborn allowed them to range widely to canter their frustration away – though sometimes their squadron heads had to rein them back and remind the younger elves to keep their destination in mind.  
  
That night they made camp on and around a small hillock, crowned with a stately ring of huge, ancient pine trees, their trunks soaring up bare for three times the height of a man before they branched. Two springs started from the rocks below them and ran to fill a large pool that more than half-moated the hill. When the elves first arrived it was evident that many orcs had stopped there for water; the ground was churned to mud that stank of strong urine and faeces. Around and about, bushes were broken and torn up by their roots, but no assault had been made on the hill itself or its green crown.  
  
The Lady’s face was thunderous in her rage, and Boromir caught a wisp of bubbling amusement from Lord Celeborn’s mind – evidently his lady was venting her ire in a long string of epithets that would have done credit to any foot-soldier, be they from the Golden Wood or the stews of Minas Tirith! Sensing him there, the elf-lord mischievously allowed Boromir to hear a little of exactly what Galadriel thought of their dams, sires, grandsires, and what she would do with them if she ever got her hands on the desecraters! Boromir was stunned, but impressed… which made Celeborn laugh out loud, before his lady glared at him for his indiscretion and Celeborn hastily dampened his link to the man. Boromir was left with his mind ringing; he looked around him at the rest of the guard and a few sly smiles told him Galadriel had not been very discreet in her fury.  
  
The guard were told to spread the wood for the elves to move to the level ground on the far side of the hill, well away from the fouled pool. Lady Galadriel and her lord mounted the hill. Hand in hand they slowly circled the outside of the ring of trees, sometimes half hidden by low greenery that grew like a hedge outside the foot of the pines. Having completed the circle they paused, as if seeking permission to enter. Bowing low, the two elves crossed the invisible boundary between the trees. The elf-queen walked to stand at their centre and raised her arms above her head, her husband standing behind her; one hand on her left shoulder, his other arm outstretched, palm down to the earth.  
  
“Why were those trees left unharmed?” Boromir whispered to Lindir.  
  
“There’s an older magic here, still powerful” the elf murmured. “There are places like this in Fangorn, places where even we do not – can not - venture in without permission, and certainly orcs cannot. That’s why they take pleasure in leaving their dung at its feet – an insult is all they are capable of against… this.”  
  
He spread his arm, palm out an invitation for Boromir to watch… around the ancient trees the air wavered, as if in a summer heat-haze. As he watched, the haze spread and broadened, but the air within became clearer, sharper, it seemed to Boromir that he might count the needles of the trees if he tried, or the embroidered stitches on the Lady’s tunic. The dome of power spread out to encompass the whole hill; it licked out over the surface of the pool and the surrounding mud. There, the light became confused; it veered and swirled, sparking flashes of green fire. Boromir could feel the air charged, it crackled over the metal of his armour. The horses shied and whinnied as their bits and bridles pricked them. He looked across and saw that the soft hair loosened from Lórindol’s temple floated in the air around his head, then realised that likewise his own hair buzzed and drifted. Gwindor bowed low and fumbled his _mithril_ mask free. Aerandir held out a silk scarf to him that rather than hanging loose, rippled together in clinging folds. Aerandir’s hair floated around his head as if on the surface of the sea, dipping and swirling in watery slow-motion; he shook the scarf free and helped Gwindor shield his face.  
  
Above the soft crackling a low rumble started below the ground, the deep vibrations made the horse shift from foot to foot. The elves standing felt it immediately, a shiver that ran up through their bones and built a knot in their bellies. Suddenly, the springs released a huge flood of water, pouring forth in torrents, as a great sigh of release was exhaled by the waiting elves as the tension vanished from their limbs. The air rushed away in sudden gust of wind that almost made them stagger and the stillness that came after was quiet and bright, everything glistened as if new made.  
  
The roaring water washed out the pool in a mighty flood, scouring away with it the fouled mud and excrement. Boromir was never sure how long it took, a few moments, a few hours… time did not so much stand still… as cease to exist. Then it was done. The man blinked hard to clear his vision; the wavering, pure light had vanished and Lord Celeborn led his lady down the bank of the hill by the hand.  
  
They set up camp round and about the hill, able now to throw broken branches on the still soft, cleansed mud so that the horses could approach the water and drink. The cooks set their hearths, food and hot drinks were welcomed and word was passed that the guards could be a minimum as they whole camp was now within the girdle of power of this… other place. Boromir settled at a campfire shared with Gwindor and Aerandir as well as Lindir and Lórindol. This night there was no lustful play, rather they took their turn to walk the perimeter, returning to listen to Aerandir’s soft lilting songs of the sea. Lindir came back from guard and slumped down behind Boromir, only half waking him from his drowsing sleep.  
  
“Hush, my adan, listen to the sea-songs and sleep well,” he whispered, before kissing the man lightly on the temple and curling behind him. Boromir welcomed the warmth, and lying spooned against the elf, drifted into restful sleep.  
  
The day’s march was punctuated with small forays as wandering bands of orcs were spotted, but most of those let fly a few arrows and fled. Celeborn would not allow them to be pursued; he would not be distracted from his goal. They camped again, this time uneventfully and marched the following day until dusk.  
  
“Tomorrow we shall reach Dol Guldur, this night we must double the guard, but we will rest before we enter that accursed forest - for there’ll be no time for respite once within its environs.” Celeborn addressed his elves. They were more sombre now and very little beyond a brief melancholy song was heard through the elven camp that night.  
  
That fourth morning they could see the dark line of the forest ahead of them, a grimy smudge against the clearing skies of the East. Under Celeborn’s leadership, the mounted elves at the fore pressed onwards, followed closely by the unwounded warriors that fronted the column of marching elves. Soon they had all but split into two groups, with Galadriel and her escort of archers now leading the second group of elves who were slowed by wounds, with the more ponderous wains of the supplies and the healers following behind them. The double-mounted outriders flanked the column, riding forth and returning after investigating any untoward movements they saw from the vantage point of being on horseback.  
  
Boromir rode a little behind Gwindor and Aerandir, the latter keeping a careful eye on the stoic Gwindor. Since having been attended again by the Lady’s healing the previous night, Gwindor rode straight-backed and true. His face was invisible behind his _mithril_ mask, but Aerandir seemed satisfied that he did not suffer unduly, although occasionally he urged the injured elf to drink from the small flask he had at his belt. Poppy, Boromir decided, it must be, mixed with _mirovur_ , from the slight heady waft his nose caught when the flask was unstoppered.  
  
The thick, coarse grass of the plain became longer and ranker, dotted by stunted bushes that rapidly became larger and interlaced with tangled patches of brambles the deeper into them they ventured. The elves were forced to move to march two-a-breast as they wound a path through them. Twisted saplings of dark trees marked the edge of the forest proper. Aerandir turned back to speak to Boromir.  
  
“Remember – eat nothing, drink nothing. This place is tainted with poisons and sorcery.”  
  
Boromir nodded, but within a few yards of entering he began to feel his throat dry. His fingers strayed to the lacing of the water bottle at his saddle's pommel, but he controlled the urge. He must ration himself; Eru knew how long they would need to make the water they’d brought with them last.  
  
All about them the predations of Dol Guldur’s master became evident – fine old trees hacked down, the ancient timber left to rot and become nothing more than a host for pale slimy toadstools, or buttressed fungi noisome with buzzing flies. In their place grew entanglements of whippy saplings hung with clinging vines, whose fruit glimmered luminously, sour-green and unwholesome. Those trees that had grown up were twisted and malformed, blasted by blights and diseases that scarred their trunks and twisted the leaves into homes for bloated larvae. Some of these seemed to drop themselves deliberately on the marching elves, to slip down necks of tunics or under armour to squelch miserably into sickly slime. Lord Celeborn called a brief halt so that all might don scarves or tighten lacings on their mail – the worst was when they trailed, unnoticed at first, through the hair leaving noisome viscous tracks until a fellow brushed it away. Lady Galadriel paused to quickly plait her long locks and tuck them fastidiously under a hood, the glutinous grubs a nuisance rather than a deterrent.  
  
The paths narrowed, and the scouts ahead were forced to probe here and there to find a way through the tangled dankness of the undergrowth. The ground rose in a series of gathering bluffs. Below each ran a rusty stream, reddened and cloudy with silting sand and iron. Where debris had blocked it, the water spread into boggy meres full of sharp-edged sedges that plucked at booted legs, or sucked feet into an oozing filth of rotting vegetation. Hindrances only served to feed the elves' anger and made them more determined to push onwards. Sometimes the horses had to be walked through treacherous ground, or taken around it when the quaking bogs deepened. Tiny eyes blinked in the heavy shadows, and sharp-nailed feet skittered unseen over dead leaves and broken branches. A thick miasma rose from the stirred leaf-mould, redolent with resentment, but the elves strode on undeterred.  
  
Having threaded their way through the interlaced hillocks and streams, the trees changed abruptly around them, becoming ranks of brooding conifers, their branches knit overhead so closely that sunlight was dimmed to dank gloom and shadows. Shadows moving in inexplicable ways, confirming that unseen, dark things slipped among them. Beneath the trees, the undergrowth failed to thrive, and grew as brittle twigs starved of light, or tall, thin plants, sparsely leaved, that stretched high until their own fragile weight brought them down to sprawl over the dried ground. The cleared earth should have made walking easier, but any heavy rain had had nothing to anchor it and the forest floor was covered with deep, ankle-twisting runnels, exposing rocks and tangled mats of twisted roots. Amongst those, the loose earth had been burrowed into by Eru knows what clawed or stinging creatures of varying sizes, whose runs and spoor littered the ground around the holes.  
  
At first the company took little notice of the pale vines that hung limply like skeins of leprous skin across the dark branches. Then they realised, these ‘vines’ were draped together in patterns, becoming thicker as they formed treacherous nets between the trees. One of the horses reared in alarm; from behind a spreading net charged a huge spider, black, coarse-haired, gruesome in its ugliness. Five arrows pierced its body before it had covered half the distance to the rearing horse, its riders clinging to its back; one elf bent over its neck, whispering to calm the frightened animal, the other nocking a second arrow to his bow.  
  
Suddenly there were dozens of the hideous beasts, skittering forward to try and sting and bite, rearing up to spit streams of fetid, sticky silk in their attempts to bring down the elves. Any elves touched by the noxious thread cried out in horror and disgust, but fought to be free of it. Some had to have it cut from them by their neighbours, while they were defended from further attack by the bows and blades of their comrades. Boromir, sword in one hand, knife in the other, carved a thick strand of foul thread from the back of Aerandir’s cuirass, before whirling to hack at a long-legged beast attacking from his other side. He saw Lindir’s horse dancing and kicking over smaller, many-legged backs as Lórindol fired arrows into more of the unnervingly fast-moving monstrosities, while Lindir leant to sweep the ground around their horse’s legs with broad slashes of his blade.  
  
Baleful, many-facetted eyes glittered menacingly, reflecting the hot anger glowing brightly in many an elf’s face. The loathsome spiders spewed forth from the forest’s shadows in ever increasing numbers, pressing hard to break the ranks of the elves, now gathered in defensive groups to fight against the foul pestilence. An elf screamed - stung by poison that laced his arm with fire under the skin. Instantly he was defended, while another caught his body as it fell. Slashing, cutting, thrusting into noxious flesh, the elves fought valiantly against the disgusting hoards that sought to overwhelm them with sheer numbers. Boromir’s arms dulled under the violence of swinging and thrusting; sometimes jarred to the bone when sword met chitinous skeleton, hard and unyielding.  
  
Then a light grew amongst them, piercing the gloom, illuminating the dark trees, growing in brilliance until it blinded the great eyes of the dark creatures. The lesser of them took fright and fled where they could. The larger cringed, and in that moment of indecision, the elves attacked ferociously and slaughtered all that remained, hacking at limb and eye until the ground could soak up no more blood and bile, but became slippery underfoot.  
  
Galadriel’s light, coruscating, blinding, gradually dimmed; she stood, trembling with rage, terrible in her anger, her face still bright, eyes flashing. Around her, her escort fired unceasingly, though no beast had been brave enough to edge close enough to attack her by sting or claw. Breathing hard, Boromir let his sword hang at his side, the blade smeared with loathsome ichor. Gwindor and Aerandir, still mounted, were back-to-back behind him, equally smeared with gore, their horses trembling and snorting, stamping with their own rage at their now-dead assailants. Aerandir’s lips bore a feral grimace, half of triumph, half of blazing anger, while Gwindor’s mask glowed blindingly white with the wrath of its wearer, shining out… a beacon of fell appetite for death and destruction. The elf’s hands clutching sword and bloody knife also glowed, Boromir noted, though the light there faded under his flesh before his concealed face gradually dimmed.  
  
“Forward!” commanded Lord Celeborn, plunging onwards through the forest.  
  
His guard reined around and followed him. The elves behind reformed themselves, some helping the wounded up to sit among the wagons and be tended to as the army moved onwards, deeper into the baleful forest.  
  
They crested another rise and there it was – the Hill of Sorcery topped by a bleak stone tower. And at its feet scurried the remains of the dark army. Leaderless now that the Nazgul had been destroyed, the captains rallied what they could of orc, goblin and foul denizen of the wood. At first, Boromir thought the tower surrounded by a ragged spiked fence of bleached white wood, but as the gasps of horror and outrage became harsh screams of wrath and revenge, he realised his error. The bile rose in his throat and forced him to lean from his horse to vomit – the huge encircling fence was made of old, slender bones… elves’ bones!  
  
And not just propped up, the skulls’ jaws agape in soundless eternal agony, but tied spread-eagled, the bony limbs stretched across black spears plunged into the ground - and each fleshless frame bore terrible, horrifying wings. Wings made from their own ribs, cruelly hacked away from the spine and twisted out and up… Blood-eagles!  
  
They had made all of them into Blood-eagles!  
  
The elves wept, some screamed and ranted, but like lightening fire raging through summer brush, incandescent fury flamed up and consumed them all. They charged, howling for vengeance, a great and terrible flood of shining tormented rage. Gwindor tore off his mask, eyes blazing, his face fearsomely contorted with the ridges and furrows of his burned flesh – he was become monstrous in his fierce hatred of those who had done this thing.  
  
“Gelmir!” he howled. “Gelmir! Gelmir!!” And he was gone.  
  
Charging at full gallop, a blistering light of fell accord – his death or theirs, it made no difference to him now. Aerandir galloped hard at his heels, his face near as grim a mask as Gwindor’s had been, save it was flesh that had set hard and smooth as mithril; flesh fired by rage and love and revenge and fear of loss… He charged to meet his fate - and let Mandos choose who he would have for his newest guests!  
  
Boromir heaved his stomach dry; he wiped his mouth on his gauntlet, gathering himself to follow, when his reins were snatched by twin gleaming wraiths on the same horse.  
  
“Not you, adan! This is our fight!” snarled Lindir.  
  
“Nooo! I fight!!” shouted Boromir.  
  
The horse reared impatiently, dancing to be off.  
  
“Do not cross us! Our _feas_ howl for blood - there will be no quarter for anything not of our kind!” screamed Lórindol.  
  
“Then let me be of you and yours!” Boromir screamed back, his voice harsh and cracked with wrath, but they had gone, racing away towards blood and destruction.  
  
Boromir leant back his head and shrieked his rage. His mind battered at the thoughts of Lord Celeborn - ‘Take Me! Take me with you!’ …and all at once a tiny peel of the elf-lord’s fury entered Boromir’s mind.  
  
‘You will it?’ snarled the thought.  
  
“Yes!” shouted Boromir aloud.  
  
The red-hot rush of unchecked ire ran through him in a malevolent stream directed at the perpetrators of this unimagined villainy. He was a fell spectre of wroth, of ruin … and he was coming to kill, maim… destroy! Boromir sank away – it was Celebmir, shining with rage and absolute hatred for what was not of his kind that spurred towards Dol Guldur. The screamed battle-cries of Lord Celeborn found a harsh second tongue within him; he matched them shriek for impassioned shriek as he galloped toward his sworn foes.  
  
Behind the hideous fence, the remaining orcs and goblins defending the tower quailed and tried desperately to flee, though many shrieked their defiance, knowing death was come upon them and there would be no escape.  
  
The shining elves slaughtered every living thing that stood before them - and everything that ran in a futile attempt to escape their flashing, murderous blades. Hatred and death was all the Elves of Lorien knew; frenzy and revenge consumed them utterly, no soft spirits remained… only blisteringly hard phantoms of unbridled fury.  
  
It did not take long. Nothing was left breathing that was not elven; nothing moved that had not their permission to live. And into that silence crept pain and sorrow. Grieving, some reached out with faltering hands to touch the terrible whitened bones, weeping copiously, their tears washing the spattered black blood from their faces. But the fence sighed – its spectres lived, trapped by the sorcery of the bleak tower. The elves wept, cursing and railing that even their dead were not allowed to rest with Mandos, but forced to remain houseless… disembodied wraiths.  
  
Then Galadriel rode forth. She dismounted before she approached the pale agony, another sun in the gloom of the forest. Hands out-stretched, eyes closed, she whispered words of power and strength, chanted release and relinquishment, slowly prising open the locks and spells that bound the tortured _feas_ of the fallen elvish warriors to this hateful place. The elves of Lorien watched in silence broken only by their soft weeping as they clung to one another - and like pale mist above early morning waters, the Dead assembled. Torn and tattered, the broken forms mended, reformed, ghostly flesh repaired itself over shattered bones that straightened and came together, renewed. Ghastly grinning skulls closed jaws with new-formed lips, and eyes replaced the dreadful empty black sockets. Long tresses, golden, black, brown, blew as delicate shining banners in an unfelt wind.  
  
The ancient elves took form again, translucent as clear water they gathered before the Lady. She opened her eyes, bade them welcome, and bid them go gladly, now that their long agonies were over. One by one, then in twos and threes they made obeisance, the sign of grace, and facing to the West they raised their ghostly arms in supplication. Out of the West a fair wind came, fresh with rain, and scented with sea-spray and fresh green-leaves; it rushed around the stricken tower. The great walls quivered at its touch, quaked and shook before its cleansing power, but this wind was not there for stones – it was there to bring the Fallen home. The ghostly elves welcomed it and let it take, thaw and dissolve them into its billows to return them westward to their longed for release. As each faded into light and air, his bleached white bones crumbled to dust so fine that instantly it rose into the gathering winds – and all fled westward over sea, down the long Straight Road that lead beyond the curve of Arda.  
  
The silence that remained was broken only by Galadriel’s great sigh. She dropped her arms to her side, and then turned to her lord. Silver-eyed, she far-spoke him, her words in his mind as clear as day.  
  
“Husband - it must come down.”  
  
“Wife – we too will help”  
  
Then aloud, Lord Celeborn called out to the assembled elves.  
  
“This foulness must fall. Dol Guldur shall be no more. Lend my Lady your will and she shall see it done.”  
  
Then every elf there knelt on one knee and offered himself, his spirit, to her, and Celebmir knelt with them - for elf or adan, he too felt himself enough one of them to desire to be a part of this deed.  
  
Lord Celeborn took his place at his lady’s shoulder. He beckoned to them to come forward, and at her other shoulder stood Gwindor, his face re-masked, and Aerandir stood with him; the rest of the guards of the elf-lord and the Lady stood close around them. Celeborn far-spoke to Celebmir, and Boromir heard:  
  
“Come. Stand with me”  
  
The man rose and stood with him, and Lindir and Lórindol came at their lord’s wish to stand with and support the man.  
  
Then it began.  
  
Lady Galadriel, the most powerful elf left on this side of the Sundering Sea, began to summon her strength – the strength of Nenya, the strength of Lorien, the strength of the willing elves who gave of their essence so that she might cast down the dreadful place… She drew it up like a wind draws the water from the sea, from the greenwoods’ leaves, like the sun draws all living things toward it. In this empowerment she became great, and terrible, a mighty queen over all.  
  
Those kneeling nearest closed their eyes, or turned their heads. Lord Celeborn and her guards swayed as if buffeted by a great storm that would make them stagger and bow before it, but they reached arm to shoulder and held their places. Lightening crackled up from ground to sky, great storm-clouds gathered overhead, and rolled in thickening darkness sheered through by flashing, jagged bolts. The Lady of the Golden Wood raised her arms. She called out in a voice terrible, beyond the power of the living to comprehend; she called upon the spiralling, gathering powers of earth and sky, of wind and water, to do her bidding.  
  
The tower shook. The tower trembled. The mortar loosed between each stone, turned to dust and fell away. The stones were ripped apart, each one from its neighbour, and as her great voice chanted her commands, the tower broke, riven into thousands of pieces. It shivered violently and the topmost stones keeled outwards and fell away to tumble with huge rending and tearing, before they thudded to the ground, each impact sending the earth shuddering like a great drum, struck and vibrating. Faster and faster, more and more fell away, until the stones tumbled down in a huge waterfall of dust and smashed rocks and broken mortar.  
  
The kneeling elves shielded their heads with their arms and pressed their mouths closed against the billowing storm of grit and dust. They shielded their eyes against the brilliant flashes of the lightening stalking the ruined ground, before it chased up to the gathered storm clouds and back to the earth. The Lady was relentless. No stone was left whole, no step or stairway, but it cracked and fell, no arch, or chamber, sill or buttress, but it was all utterly consumed by the elves’ revenge. The tumultuous roar of rending and tearing, splitting and splintering finally dwindled to dull crashes and thuds. The elves protected their faces until they felt the air subside, and the noise was reduced to sliding rubble coming to a slow rest. Then - there was stillness.  
  
They opened their eyes. Clouds of dust still hung in the air, choking and cloying, but Dol Guldur stood no more. The Lady motioned them all to withdraw and she took herself to stand a short distance away on a rocky outcrop. Fire arced about her head and sparked sharply to the ground and then up to the clearing skies. She held out her hands palm downwards and the huge pile of smashed stone and debris shook and fell against each other. Chinks appeared at the base of the pile and masonry fell, sinking down and down.  
  
Galadriel was opening the pits beneath Dol Guldur. As each level collapsed, more of the hated stones fell in on themselves, crushing to dust those below so that more and more could compact down. The ground shook. It shivered faster and faster and the bodies of orc and goblin not smashed under the piles of rubble began to sink as if into soft mud. The broken stones sank too, until finally only a mound of unrecognizable rock remained to mark the place that had been the dreadful Hill of Sorcery.  
  
All the elves exhaled, breathing out in a great collective sigh as the Lady released them from her. Boromir staggered a little but was caught by the arms of Lindir and Lórindol wound around him. He turned his head automatically to look for Lord Celeborn, who met his eyes.  
  
“We let you go…with our thanks…” he said silently into Boromir’s mind.  
  
As Boromir drifted away he became aware that Celeborn also shared his thoughts with Haldir. He felt the distant elf there, absent in body perhaps, but ever-present in his love’s mind. The Marchwarden had also added his will to the elf-lord’s might.  
  
About him the elves blinked and stretched, still stunned by the tumult that had assailed their senses. Slowly they gathered themselves together and began to deal with the aftermath of any battle: minor wounds to be tended and stitched, weapons to be cleaned. Most sought water to wash their mouths free of the dust. Flasks of _mirovur_ were passed around t help them revive. Gwindor staggered and was urged, nay, ordered, to sit down by Aerandir, who produced the little flask of poppy and liquor and stood over Gwindor until the elf had drunk enough to satisfy his self-appointed nurse.  
  
Lindir held out a flask to Boromir. The man took it gratefully, but coughed and spluttered when the huge gulp he took turned out to be the reviving but fiery liquor rather than water. Lindir laughed and clapped him on the back to aid him from choking.  
  
“That’s it, my little adan – do you not die on me now!”  
  
The thumps made Boromir stagger under the blows, until Lórindol held back his lover’s hand.  
  
“Gently, meleth, the lord may come from the Stone-land, but he’s not made of it!”  
  
He held out a water bottle.  
  
“Here, Boromir mine, drink this and I’ll hold that great dwarf back from pounding you to dust!”  
  
Boromir, his eyes watering, nodded and reached to catch the flask from Lórindol’s grasp. His saviour meanwhile caught Lindir away in a bear-hug.  
  
“You should pick on someone your own size,” Lórindol admonished.  
  
Lindir’s hand slid surreptitiously between their bodies to cup…  
  
“I usually do…” Lindir squeezed quickly before sliding his hand away and was rewarded with a gasp as the other elf struggled to free himself.  
  
“Not now…” muttered Lórindol.  
  
“But we all know about later!” quipped Boromir, now recovered.  
  
Lórindol raised an eyebrow and winked at him, and Boromir had the grace to blush.  
  
Lord Celeborn climbed an outcropping of rocks so all could see him.  
  
“We still have work to do here. We will make our camp and rest until tomorrow. But remember – drink nothing, eat nothing. This place is still tainted, but burn whatever wood you wish. We will light this place and it will never darken again!”  
  
He climbed down and amidst smiles and laughter walked over to Boromir, taking his arm to walk him aside a little.  
  
“My friend – and I call you that with reason – your task here is done. Any allegiance you hold for me, I release you from it.”  
  
“My Lord, my allegiance will ever be with you, you have but to call upon it, but…”  
  
“You remember more and more of your home land and the other ties that bind you?”  
  
Boromir bowed his head.  
  
“Go to them,” said Celeborn softly, “Go to him – he waits for you.”  
  
“Does he?” Boromir’s head jerked up.  
  
“I would… if I were him,” Celeborn smiled and took Boromir by the shoulders, “So young you are, yet not a child… Be at peace Boromir. I have seen the love you hold for him – and the love he holds for you. If he were now with Mandos or beyond – you would know… And as you do not… then he waits.”  
  
Boromir nodded. “I feel what you say is right, even if my head may doubt, my heart knows the truth.”  
  
“Then follow your heart – it is bold and true, and will not lead you astray.”  
  
“Ah – my pride did that,” sighed Boromir, “Now where shall I go?”  
  
“Back to your city. You still have a place there, a different place perhaps… but an honoured place nonetheless…”  
  
“But I shamed myself…”  
  
“And you redeemed your honour, ten-fold. I do not doubt your worth, neither will he who comes now into his long inheritance.”  
  
“Aragorn?”  
  
Celeborn nodded, “Long have his forebearers wandered, and long have the Elves sheltered them, waiting for the heir who would be king – a king to re-unite the realms of Arda… especially now the time of the Elves is passing.”  
  
“You will go into the West then?” Boromir halted in his tracks.  
  
“My Lady will… and many with her… but not I. I am beholden to Arda now. For the sake of Haldir I pledged myself to the forests… and I would not have it any other way. Besides… there’s another consideration now…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Celeborn merely smiled half to himself, “Another small hope to come, perhaps…" Then he brightened, " But you must think of your return to the White City. Elessar will take up his rightful place soon. He will keep tradition and become a king at the next post of the seasons’ wheel.”  
  
“I should go to serve him, but he may wish to wipe away the Stewards…”  
  
“Never. He well knows their worth – all of them.”  
  
“I hope my father agrees.”  
  
Celeborn shrugged. “Take some rest with us now. Then return to Lorien – I shall send Lindir and Lórindol with you - nay, no argument – there will still be orcs roaming free and looking for easy vengeance! Haldir will see a boat prepared for you and you can continue the journey you started once before. This time, I think that you will discover things have changed a great deal. You will find Hope, and Hope will find you. May you have joy of it, you and the Prince of Horses.”  
  
The Elf-lord embraced Boromir briefly and walked away. He still had many plans to make with his Lady. The world had changed; now he had to see what would be changing with it.  
  
Boromir watched him go; aware that he would never again share himself so completely with another being. No, not even with his beloved Théodred, and he was not sure if that thought made him happy or sad…  
  
He looked back to where the elves gathered wood to burn as bonfires through the night, already they were singing to commemorate the dead and praise their victory. The world, his world had changed, he had changed – now it was time to seek out his city, his family… and yes… his king. He drew in a deep breath, already touched with wood-smoke and the sweet strewing-herbs cast to the flames by the healers, and exhaled in a great sigh – ‘to seek that which he yearned for and yet feared to find… He had to find his Théodred.  
  
Soon. He would have to leave very soon. He would need to ride hard, and then hope the river proved favourable to him – he had thirty days to return to Minas Tirith. If the king was to be crowned – then as the Steward’s son – he should be there. And if he was not the Steward’s heir when he got there… so be it. He would pledge his fealty again, for surely there would be a place in Gondor’s army for him? And if not, as a warrior for hire in Rohan, maybe? He walked slowly back towards the elvish camp, conscious of the smells and sounds that had been so frighteningly different once, but know were a part of him, and he realised – he also needed trees. Lord of Stone, yes… but from now onwards he would always yearn for the company of trees.  
  
His thoughts still rolled in turmoil as he approached the area set aside for Lord Celeborn and his guard; Lindir and Lórindol were there, also Gwindor, masked again, sitting with Aerandir at his back rubbing his shoulders.  
  
“Hail Boromir,” Lindir greeted him cheerfully, “We four are to accompany you with our lord’s blessing.”  
  
“All four?”  
  
Lórindol nooded, “Aerandir has a mind to show us the sea he sings of so often, and since the river is the obvious way to get there, we thought it would be killing two birds with one arrow for us to pass by the Stone-land. Do you not wish us to see your White City?”  
  
“Nay!” Boromir smiled in real pleasure, “To have your company would delight me!”  
  
Lindir grinned ‘I told you so’ at Lórindol.  
  
Boromir caught the sly glance and flushed slightly, “All of your company…”  
  
Which made Lindir burst out laughing at Boromir’s sudden and evident confusion on realising what he might have implied.  
  
“Do not worry my adan, we travel with you, but we make no demands… unless you choose to…” Lindir raised an eyebrow, but Lórindol pushed his shoulder.  
  
“Hush dwarf! You’ll give us all a bad name! Our friend Boromir, we would be pleased for you to accept our offer of company on your journey.” Lórindol made a formal gesture hand to head and heart.  
  
“My friends,” Boromir replied with the same acknowledgment. “You do me honour.”  
  
“Well – if that’s all settled then, what about some food? I smell cooking – is there only me to fetch and carry for all of you?” said Lindir brightly.  
  
“Come away, glutton,” laughed Lórindol, “Before you start eating the toadstools!”  
  
They strolled off in easy comradeship, arms about each others shoulders. Boromir watched them go for a moment, and then sat down by the fire. Gwindor nodded to him, Aerandir paused and smiled at the man before continuing to massage his companion’s shoulders. Boromir watched them with a slight smile he little knew revealed his hunger for such company. He settled back against the piled saddles and his thoughts turned again to what he might find in Minas Tirith, what he hoped to find there… ‘Théodred could not be dead, he was sure of that… wasn’t he?’  
  
He sighed and the seated elves glanced across at him, though Boromir was lost enough in his thoughts not to notice. He pulled his cloak around him; the warmth of the fire, the realization of tiredness… his eyes slowly fluttered and closed…  
  
‘Wait for me, my Prince… I shall come to you… I shall come…’


	43. Afterword - "The Last Peredhel"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Theodred is prevented from travelling to the Fords of Isen by a strange messanger, and is sent to Parth Galen to rescue Boromir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concepts of 'wind-curtains' and elvish 'silver-eyed far-speaking' were originally created by Implacida, and are used here because they seem so completely 'right' as expressions of elven culture; they deserve to be part of fanon.

Note: I wrote this epilogue over a year ago. Boromir still has to get back to Minas Tirith, as does Théodred, but in the interim of what is likely to be some months… I thought I’d post this now.  
  
  
In time a boy was born to Tasarion, as Lady Galadriel had indeed long foreseen. A peredhel, a treasured child whose bright hair mixed the rich gold of winter honey with stands pale as harvest grains; his green eyes like newly opened leaves. The elf who had called herself Tasarion when she became an archer with the wardens, who gave up her female name to become as neutral as the trees, was fond of the babe and nurtured him, but he was not entirely hers, and never would be, this half-elven child. She soon left him in the charge of Lord Celeborn and Lord Haldir, when she departed into the West, along with many others of elvenkind. The Lords of Lorien were as fathers to the child. He was raised as their son, privileged with rank and honour, protected and much loved by them both, and by their court and followers in the forests they took as their own.  
  
Some fifty years later, at Lord Boromir’s funeral, a party of elven lords arrived at Minas Tirith with – wonder of wonders! - a small, beautiful elven child who answered to the name of Celebmir. He was kept sheltered among the visiters and jealously guarded, so that he was rarely seen other than by the King and Queen, and Lord Boromir’s old amah who was still favoured at court. They attended the public funeral which was held in the City of Stone and the Hallows; after which the body was secretly taken, as was Lord Boromir’s private will and wish, and placed in an elven boat, which had been bought down river with the elves.  
  
Then the slender grey craft was loosed to the Anduin and, eventually, the Great Sea. It was the elves, led by Celeborn and Haldir who towed the boat away with them in the green dawn. They paddled their craft quietly down the river into the morning mists, seeing that Lord Boromir, the King’s Steward and Emissary, Elf-Friend, beloved of the late King of the Mark had an escort and honour guard on his last journey to the sea. After first kissing the corpse in formal farewell, the elf-child sat crouched in the bow of his fathers’ craft, and solemnly watched over the noble man laying in the craft that floated behind them on the glittering waters.  
  
Nearly seventy years afterwards, a similar small party of mysterious elven lords attended the far smaller and less public funeral of the amah. With them was the same very young elf, taller now, but still kept close among them so that scarce anybody spoke to him, apart from King Elessar, who was the chief mourner at the venerable old woman’s funeral. The King wept openly as her linen-wrapped body was laid on the bier, silent tears rolling down his cheeks to wet his now grey beard.  
  
The young elf brought with him a small box of grey soil from Lothlorien. With great respect he poured it into the hole dug among the ashes after the amah’s funeral pyre. In this, King Elessar directed to be planted the rare golden-leaved sapling the amah had for many years kept and carefully tended in a great pot in the courtyard of her house. This soon grew very tall when the roots were given their freedom, there on the banks of the Great River above the renewed city of Osgiliath, the only Mallorn east of Lothlorien. The elves then journeyed south to Ithilien to visit with their kin dwelling among the new glades and woods planted there.  
  
A few months later the same elves returned for the King’s funeral, an occasion of far more pomp and ceremony than the lowly amah’s. Consequently the elf was more visible and some intimates at the court were able to hear and note with wonder the young Celebmir’s solemn public declaration to the mourning Queen.  
  
“I am half-elven. Three times now have I witnessed the Gift of Men, and I wish none of it. I make my choice, and I chose to be elvenkind. Therefore there is a place for me in one of the ships that go into the West, but I shall never take it. My fathers will never leave Middle-earth. They were born here, as was I, it will always and forever be my one and only home. But you, my Lady, you gave up your place on the ships for love, and now for love, I offer you mine. Take it when you will.”  
  
And the young elf bowed very low before the pale Queen whose eyes brimmed with bright tears. It was sometime afterwards, she bid a loving farewell to her daughters and her son, the new king, and departed from Minas Tirith and Gondor forever, but whether she eventually took the place freely and willingly offered to her and went finally into the distant West to re-join her kin… is something known only to her.  
  
Celebmir grew tall and strong, valiant in his deeds, wide in his knowledge, wise in his thoughts. In the slow time of the Firstborn, he followed his fathers as leader and eventually became Lord of the Elves of Middle-earth. Like them, he was devoted to the forests and woods, and loved them above any other part of Arda, and he never, ever did leave them.  
  
And much, much later as the world slowly changed shape, and the mountains and rivers altered and became strange, when old deeds became the half-remembered stuff of tales and legends, folk who occasionally glimpsed him began to call him by another name – Calenadan…  
  
…The Green Man.


End file.
